


Land of Hope and Glory

by wellingtonboots



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Spy, BAMF John, Child Soldiers, Dark, Dark Mycroft, Espionage, F/M, Gen, Het, Kid Fic, Kid John, M/M, Mycroft is all powerful, Mycroft's Meddling, Obsessive Behaviour, Omniscient Mycroft, Romance, Sherlock is the best secret agent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-27 11:27:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 47,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellingtonboots/pseuds/wellingtonboots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Sherlock knew he couldn’t stop the explosion any more than he could turn back time and make sure none of this could ever happen. He needed to make the most of what time he had left with John. They would be together in these final moments and that was what truly mattered.  </i><br/> <br/>AU –  Mycroft Holmes leads the grim war on terror and Sherlock is his best secret agent: cold, calculating and ruthless.  He is obsessed with destroying the militant terrorists hiding deep in the disused London Underground – until one momentous day when he meets a child soldier named <i> John</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Trishkafibble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trishkafibble/gifts), [dioscureantwins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/gifts).



> An enormous thank you to both dioscureantwins and trishkafibble for giving up so much of their time to beta this story. It was a long and extensive project. I could not have done this without them.
> 
> This story is around 40000 words long. I will be posting chapters every week/every fortnight - usually on Saturday night GMT or Sunday morning GMT.

#  .

  
 

# Chapter 1 – To Free the World

 

John couldn’t remember the first time he set foot in the vast network of abandoned London Underground tunnels. He might have been an adventurous toddler who wandered away from a distracted mother, or an unwanted bastard unceremoniously abandoned in a disused tube station – but how he came to be Sergeant John Watson of the Liberty Resistance Army didn’t matter. He had a sacred purpose in life: to liberate the world from the tyranny of the British Empire.

John had spent his entire life in the tunnels; they were the only home he had ever known, and he’d studied their history avidly. Taken over by the war effort during the Second World War, the London Underground had served as the main military base during the German invasion. A complex and highly sophisticated set of bunkers, command centres and strategic defence platforms had been built deep within the Underground system. At the end of the war the extensive network of tunnels, tracks and stations were condemned and abandoned, the official reason being that the cost to dismantle the military installations and return the Underground to working order was too high for the bankrupt nation. This had been a blessing for the LRA, who since then had turned the empty, discarded tunnels into a giant complex of military bases from which to launch attacks against the tyrannical government just metres above them.

John often thought that a normal person, like the characters in the tattered books he loved, would want to know more about his own history. A normal person would care whether he had a family who loved him, who still prayed for his safe return…but John had long since concluded that he wasn’t _normal_. While the characters in his books spent their time worrying about parents and school, his life was occupied by _war._

His waking moments were dictated by the necessities of survival and by uncompromising orders from above. This was the only life he’d ever known, and while he understood that there was another world above the concrete ceilings that bounded his own, he had no desire to experience it for himself. Life in the Underground was _good_. He enjoyed being the youngest platoon commander, and he loved his fellow soldiers. They were all the family he would ever need or want.

But there was one man who would always hold a special place in John’s heart: his captain, Sebastian Moran. Seb was his hero, his idol, the man John wanted to resemble above all others. Not only was his captain the bravest of men, but he possessed an inhuman ability to know what people wanted, often before they knew it themselves.

Today, in the artificial gloom of his billet, Sebastian had demonstrated his unusual gift by presenting John with the one thing he’d always wanted.

“It’s a dirty bomb,” said Seb, pointing at the footlocker lying on the table, which was the sole piece of furniture in the room.

John stared long and hard at the battered lid of the footlocker, as if he could actually see through the metal to its contents. The soldiers had been talking about a nuclear strike against the Government forces for months now. It was automatically assumed that the seasoned veterans of Company A would be the heroes of this mission, but John had held a glimmer of childish hope that maybe, just maybe, somebody in the high regions of command would remember _him._

Today John’s fervent prayers had been answered. Suddenly, within the space of a few seconds, John was about to get exactly what he’d wished for.

“You’re going to detonate it,” continued Seb solemnly as he reached over to clasp John’s shoulders like a proud parent.

John fantasized sometimes that Seb really was his father, and in his fantasies he liked to imagine the two of them fishing in rivers and camping in huge forests, like he had read in the storybooks.

“The Imperials are going to have a high-profile meeting right above Westminster tube station,” said Seb, “but you knew that already, didn’t you?”

John nodded, arching his neck back to look at the gaunt face of his pretend father. Company C had run out of razor blades several months ago, and Seb now sported a thick beard a hand’s-breadth long, which John rather liked. He was beginning to remind John of the Huntsman in Snow White, or perhaps the Woodsman in Little Red Riding Hood. Either way, Seb looked like a hero.

“Here’s your mission brief.” Seb produced a tattered folder, covered with crossed-out titles of previous projects. A thick, uneven wad of yellowing paper protruded from the top. “You’re expected at HQ for a full briefing at 08:00 tomorrow.”

With a curt military nod, Seb released John’s shoulders and walked out of the billet. For a moment, John wanted to grab his arm and hold onto their precious time together. He wanted desperately for the man, who was the closest thing he had to a father, to actually wrap his arms around John’s shoulders and hug him, but Seb was already out of the hatch, leaving John alone.

By the time he’d finished reading the dossier, the other members of his platoon had returned from duty. They were affectionately called the “baby squad” by the rest of the company, as all the members were pre-pubescent boys. The platoon used to be much larger, but accidents and the bleeding sickness had whittled their number down to just four, commanded by Sergeant John Watson. Unlike their commander, the other boys all had stories to tell: tales of abuse, severe neglect, homelessness, and finally being rescued by the Liberty Resistance Army. Occasionally John would feel a twinge of envy: although the other boys’ life stories were filled with pain and betrayal, they at least had the comfort of _knowing_ where they’d come from.

Slightly, the tallest of the baby squad, gawked at the footlocker still lying on the table and stumbled over his own feet to get a closer view. He was a lanky boy who had a habit of wetting himself at night: hence he was always _slightly_ wet.

Murray was the next to appear, glancing at the object for a moment before dumping his gear on his patch of floor and crawling into his sleeping sack. “Good luck with that,” he muttered from inside the thick blanket, “you’re gonna need it.”

Zero came in last, as usual, and walked straight up to John to hand him a hard-tack biscuit wrapped in a dirty handkerchief.

“Thanks, man,” said John, and swallowed the evening ration in three bites.

“Is that –?” asked Slightly, sounding both awed and afraid. “We heard that you’d been chosen to….”

“Yep,” replied John, sounding for split second like the child he was. “I’m going to be fully briefed tomorrow morning.”

“So – so you’re going to blow up the government?” stuttered Slightly.

“No, he’s just going to put on a fireworks display for those fat idiots,” snapped Zero sarcastically. Slightly shrank back as if he’d been slapped.

“Cut it out, Zero,” said John in a firm voice.

“I bet you think you’re such a hotshot now,” sneered Zero, his dark eyes roving over John’s face as if looking for some sign of arrogance or contempt.

“No, I don’t.” At times like these John knew better than to become angry. Zero had a bad temper and what Seb termed “low self-esteem”. It made him sensitive and paranoid, hearing insults in every remark, however casual.

“You’re acting like it,” sneered Zero, “you’re behaving like you’ve already become a hero!”

John couldn’t understand how sitting on the floor while reading a file could be deemed arrogant, but he shut the folder anyway and levelled a glare at Zero. “If you have a problem with this, go talk to Captain Moran about it.”

Zero slunk away, but continued to glare at John from the opposite corner, where his bed roll sat. John pulled his gaze away deliberately and paid him no further attention.

He had been given the greatest honour that could be bestowed on a soldier, a chance to bring an end to the government. He’d been singled out above all others to perform this task. The weight of this grave responsibility coupled with the unspoken exhilaration and pride he felt was a glorious sensation.

_He was going to free the world from tyranny._

Sherlock Holmes tapped his elegant fingers impatiently on the empty desk before him. He despised waiting, and there was no form of waiting more despicable than waiting for _Mycroft_. His brother, the effective ruler of the largest Empire in history, had clearly never learnt to tell the time.

The office where Sherlock had been forced to wait was just one of many official rooms designated for Mycroft’s use. It was sparsely furnished; the only decorative item was a painting of the young Queen Elizabeth hanging prominently behind Mycroft’s large, polished desk. Sherlock leaned back in his brother’s chair and propped his feet on the desk, making sure to leave a mark on the gleaming surface. He glared up at the ornate cast-plaster ceiling, imagining all the things he would rather be doing, as the grandfather clock in the corner slowly ticked away the seconds. 

“Sorry I’m late,” drawled Mycroft as an aide opened the door for him. “I was caught up in a meeting with MI5’s counter-terrorism branch.” The British Government was dressed, as usual, in an impeccably tailored suit, and in his left hand he carried an unassuming leather briefcase – doubtless containing the most valuable state secrets.

“You’re not sorry,” snapped Sherlock. “I’ve lost nearly an hour of my time, when I could be chasing terrorists!”

“Moriarty again, dear brother?  Do remember what your _obsession_ with him led to. You lost your position at MI5 because of your rabid hunt for this madman.”

“He’s _dangerous_ and he’s planning something, something big. I just know it.”

“Moriarty is _dead_ ,” said Mycroft firmly. “He has been confirmed dead for over two years now. Sherlock, you promised me you had moved past this.”

“Fine, fine,” grumbled Sherlock, throwing his arms up fitfully, “don’t believe me, but there _are_ rebels in London –”

“There was no evidence –”

“– there _is_ evidence!” snarled Sherlock, jumping up from his seat and stalking towards his brother. “There _are_ rebels living down there, in the Underground, like so many rats in a sewer!”

“Sherlock,” chided Mycroft, “please listen to me. I said there _was_ no evidence; I didn’t state there _is_ no evidence.”

Sherlock took a step back and searched his brother’s expression for any sign of sarcasm. For ten years he had been trying to make the government take his theory seriously, but no one, including Mycroft, wanted to believe that rebel insurgents were living right beneath their feet. An endless list of dull, repetitive questions had assaulted him from all sides:

_Where would they get water and food supplies? How can they light the tunnels without electricity? How have they managed to evade all the surveillance drones patrolling the Underground?_

Those fat bureaucrats in their bespoke suits couldn’t comprehend life without the creature comforts. They simply wouldn’t believe that people could live on dried food and rainwater, that they could survive without lighting or heating. Now it seemed the terrorists had finally made a mistake, and Sherlock was about to be vindicated.

Mycroft placed the heavy leather briefcase on the table and opened it without haste. “A surveillance drone operating in the service tunnels under the old King’s Cross Station took these photographs just moments before it was destroyed by enemy fire.”

Three astonishingly sharp black and white photographs showed the same detailed view of a semi-circular concrete tunnel, at five second intervals. At the very edge of the illuminated area was a humanoid shape, indistinct at first, but coming into focus in the last picture. The figure was wearing what seemed to be a military uniform and holding an assault rifle.

Sherlock tried to contain his shock, but his sharp intake of breath upon seeing the last image was enough to show his hand.

“It’s a _child_ ,” muttered Sherlock, taken aback by the strength of his own surprise. The first glimpse he’d had of an actual Underground terrorist, and it was definitely not what he had been expecting. A flood of questions poured through his mind even as it rapidly filed away all the facts this single black and white photograph presented.

“From the original image, our experts have managed to produce this.” A fourth photo, this time of the two metal dog tags around the boy’s neck, was shoved under Sherlock’s nose.

“ _John Watson,_ ” he read, marvelling at how banal the name sounded. This boy could have been any small child running around in the suburbs of London – but instead he was holding an assault rifle, staring down a surveillance drone without a hint of fright.

“He doesn’t match any missing person reports from the last fifteen years,” said Mycroft. “We have to assume that, whoever he is, his family didn’t miss him.”

“Why does that matter?”

“We have reason to believe from our sources within the LRA that this boy is going to be detonating a nuclear bomb under the Houses of Parliament.”

Sherlock blinked, his mind unable to process the information for a split second. It was no surprise that Mycroft had agents inside the LRA, but this terror network spanned the globe and had footholds in almost every British colony. Each terror cell was almost completely isolated from the others, making the loss of one group much less damaging to the overall organisation. The culture of secrecy within the LRA meant that there were potentially hundreds of cells that still lay undiscovered. _So how had Mycroft’s source found out about the operations of a secret cell that the government didn’t know existed until now?_

Mycroft was scrutinising him again, so Sherlock covered his curiosity with a sneered, “MI5 have become even more stupid since I left. No one with a remote semblance of a brain would give that mission to a boy. He’d probably wet his pants and run away crying.”

“I wouldn’t write him off if I were you,” responded Mycroft with a note of superiority in his tone, “this _boy_ is responsible for the Canary Wharf sniper shootings last year.”

Sherlock felt his jaw opening of its own accord, before he ruthlessly forced it shut again. “Says who?”

“Our sources, who shall remain anonymous,” replied Mycroft with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Although Sherlock knew he was unlikely to find out anything more, old habits insisted that he probe further. “Your sources may have gotten the same name for the bomber and the sniper, but unless you have actual evidence that they are the same person, or that either of the terrorists is this _child…_.”

“I assure you, _dear brother_ , that you need not worry about the accuracy of the intelligence,” replied Mycroft, putting on another false smile.

Sherlock raised an appraising eyebrow, then turned back to the pictures to analyse their subject.

 _John Watson: small – 4ft 3in_ – _thin, malnourished, light-coloured hair, mostly likely blond; experienced with an assault rifle, possible kill count; has some knowledge of military tactics, indicated by standing to the left side of the drone to give maximum area of target fire; has some knowledge of drones: can tell the difference between armed drones and surveillance ones._

“Do you have anything else on him?” demanded Sherlock.

“No, this is the first and only visual we have; the rest is entirely up to you”

“To me?”

“Your mission, should you choose to accept it,” said Mycroft, although his tone left no possibility of actual rejection, “is to infiltrate the LRA’s nuclear strike mission.”

“You’ve gone mad,” replied Sherlock incredulously as he stared back at his brother.

“Hardly. You will be replacing Dr Sigerson, who has been hired by the LRA to set up their dirty bomb. This will give you all the access you need to the key players. Your objectives are two-fold: first, to ensure that the bomb cannot be detonated; and second, to capture John Watson.”

“ _Capture_ him? Whatever for?”

“He’s an easier target than any of the generals. The child is one of their best snipers, and a proficient bomb maker. His loss will be more of a blow to the LRA than they could possibly realise, and he can provide us with intelligence on the logistics of living in the Underground that our current sources cannot.”

Sherlock stared back at the photograph of the boy holding his assault rifle at the ready, eyes hard and expression blank. For a moment, he wondered just what was going on inside the child’s mind as he held the gun up to take down a machine three times his size.

“You might have a problem breaking him,” stated Sherlock flatly as he grabbed his coat from the back of Mycroft’s chair.

“You just suggested he would lose control of his bladder at the slightest provocation.”

“I never said you shouldn’t also buy a supply of nappies,” sneered Sherlock – but he pocketed the photographs as he stalked out of the room.

In his silent flat, Sherlock lay on the sofa and stared into the eyes of a child soldier whose mere presence was going to shake the world. This mission was going to be his opportunity to vindicate himself. 

_He was going to free the world from terror._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like you all to suspend your disbelief in this Alternative Universe and give Sherlock and young John a chance. There are plenty of stories about Sherlock/John adopting a child but I really wanted to have Sherlock interact with John as a child. I wanted Sherlock to be John's father figure and not the other way around as is so common in fanfiction. 
> 
> Of course John has to be a soldier even as child and this took me down the route of child soldiers and the trauma, brainwashing and abuse they suffer. In a way this fic is dedicated to all of the children who are forced to be come combatants or are caught in a war zone. Children who never had the chance of being _children_. 
> 
> If you would like to find out more please visit: http://www.unicef.org.uk/landing-pages/independent-christmas-appeal-child-soldiers-web/?gclid=CJCpicTGjrUCFW7HtAodmH4A1g&sissr=1


	2. Paranoia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoy this new chapter. It introduces one very important relationship that will be central to the plot. Once again thanks to my two wonderful betas who this story is dedicated too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Mr Sherlock,” said Angelo with more enthusiasm than was strictly necessary, “come in, come in!”

“Just spaghetti, and make it quick,” said Sherlock, not bothering with any niceties: his long-term friend and food provider was used to this brusque manner. 

Angelo rushed into the kitchen to give his staff the order, then hurried back with a candle for Sherlock’s table.

The small Italian restaurant felt warm and homely at this time of night. Couples and families occupied most of the seats, chatting and laughing. Bunches of dried herbs and vegetables hung around the walls as decorations, giving the establishment a rustic ambience that Sherlock enjoyed.

“It’s my vain hope that you’ll bring your date back,” explained Angelo as he placed the candle in the centre of Sherlock’s usual table by the window.

“She wasn’t just my date, she was also my colleague,” snapped Sherlock, but Angelo merely answered him with a superior smile.

The spaghetti appeared with lashings of Bolognese – which Sherlock hadn’t ordered – but Angelo refused to leave him alone until he had eaten the entire plate.

“You need to build your strength up. I have this feeling I’m not going to see you again for a while,”

“You’re right,” replied Sherlock curtly as he reached for his wallet, which was, as usual, fervently rejected.

“You don’t pay here, Mr Sherlock. You need to eat well or you’ll fade away.”

Sherlock suppressed a smile at that phrase: his life as a spy had always been lived in the shadows. The ability to fade into the background or fade into another persona was second nature to Sherlock. Over the years, as he became more consumed by his hunt for Moriarty, Sherlock had begun to wonder whether the lines between their personalities were already blurring and fading.

“Good seeing you again, Angelo,” said Sherlock quietly.

“You are always welcome,” the Italian replied with gusto.

Sherlock stepped out into the cool summer night and braced himself against the lashing wind that felt like it still contained icicles from Siberia. This British summer was proving to be as temperamental as the last, with days of scorching sunshine followed by squalling gales and torrential rain. Tonight, the biting wind made walking unpleasant even with a long winter coat and scarf. Sherlock plunged his hands deep into his pockets and hurried home as fast as possible.

By the time he turned the corner onto Baker Street, he already knew he was being followed. A dark shape flitted at the edge of his vision, sometimes disappearing for long moments in a vain attempt to convince him that it was just his imagination, or paranoia. The sparse, dim glow of the street lamps illuminated very little of the dark street, and between the patches of light, sinister shadows shifted and weaved as Sherlock hurried along.

When he finally reached 221B, he fitted his key into the front door and pretended to fiddle with the lock. It was an old trick he still used occasionally to fool would-be assassins into thinking that he was in a vulnerable state.

The attack came from the right as he knew it would, a wickedly sharp blade slashing at his carotid artery. It missed by a wide margin but was instantly followed by a roundhouse kick to his thigh. He blocked the assault with his right hand, jabbing the keys into his opponent’s calf muscles. A hand gripped his hair painfully, pulling him backward onto the pavement and leaving the front door of 221B gaping half open.

Sherlock twisted gracefully, using his feet to pivot and pull his centre of gravity downward to regain his balance. They were almost facing each other when a vicious kick came flying at his groin. Mindful of his duty to continue the Holmes family line, he kicked out at the attacker’s other leg, which for a split second was supporting all her weight. She lost her balance – but instead of tumbling backwards onto the street, she threw herself forward, knocking both of them into the hallway of 221B with a resounding thud.

Mrs Hudson, Sherlock’s ever-present and ever-fussing landlady, ran out from her flat in a state of panic – which soon subsided when she saw just who was lying on top of him. “Can you please do this somewhere else?” she asked, though her exasperated tone showed she had already given up hope either of them was ever going to listen.

“I’m sorry, Mrs Hudson,” said Irene smugly, “I just can’t keep my hands off him.”

 

* * *

 

 

Half an hour later, the kettle had boiled and Irene was curled up in one of his armchairs, wearing his dressing gown. Her luxurious, thick brown hair was drying in the heat from the fire, and Sherlock relished for a moment the remembered sensation of running his hands through those smooth, silky locks.  Even a decade after their first meeting, he still thought of Irene as _the_ woman: the only woman who had ever enraptured his mind and captured his heart.

She held out her hand for a cup of Earl Grey, and Sherlock passed it to her in silence.

“How was Beirut?” she asked with a knowing smile. “I heard you caused quite a commotion.”

“The Egyptian Prime Minister refused to listen to me and consequently lost his life. The human gene pool is much better off now. When did you get back from the Congo?”

“This evening. Thought I’d drop by and see if you’ve replaced me, seeing as I’ve been gone for so long,” Irene said, leaning forward in her chair with a wicked glint in her eyes that did terrible things to Sherlock’s cognitive function.

“Why would I replace something I don’t want?”

“…Because you’re a sexually frustrated bachelor in his thirties who makes up for his interpersonal anxieties by behaving like a petulant toddler at all times? Oh, and shall I mention your brother? But then we could be here all night….”

“I haven’t replaced you,” growled Sherlock, and sipped his piping-hot tea. The warm, heady aroma of his favourite blend provided a comforting anchor against the storm that was brewing outside.

“This is not just a social visit,” admitted Irene in a low voice, interrupting Sherlock’s thoughts.

“I know.”

“You’ve been tasked with infiltrating the LRA.”

Sherlock didn’t bother asking how she’d obtained that piece of information. Irene Adler had become one of the most renowned agents in MI5 since her defection from Moriarty almost a decade ago.  Sherlock had been the one to recruit her, not just because she was as close to the criminal mastermind as any human could get, but because she _fascinated_ him. They were so alike, yet so different. Even after ten years of deadly missions, secret escapades and stolen moments together, she still remained the most remarkable mystery he had ever encountered.

“You’re right,” he replied flatly, and continued to drink his tea.

“I’m going to be helping you out.”

Thankfully, that remark caught Sherlock in between sips; otherwise, Irene would have been treated to an amusing display of the man choking on his own beverage. “This is not an MI5 operation!” hissed Sherlock venomously. “I don’t work for those fools anymore.”

“Lestrade and Gregson have agreed with Mycroft to run this operation jointly. Having me working on this as a liaison was the best compromise we could come up with.”

“And I suppose they ordered you here to break the news to me?” snarled Sherlock, feeling inexplicably hurt at the idea.

“You really are a toddler,” replied Irene with equal measures of amusement and exasperation “They were going to tell you at the briefing tomorrow, but I thought you deserved to know tonight. …Well, I thought it would be a good excuse to _visit_ you tonight.”

“You don’t need an excuse to visit.” Irene had a habit of treating his apartment as her own and had recently developed an annoying tendency to redecorate his personal space as she saw fit. The new coffee table and union jack cushion were entirely _her_ doing. 

“Mmm, but I do need a reason to stay _all_ night.”

Sherlock had never been a paragon of British self-control, but the speed at which he crossed the room to envelop her was indecent even by his standards.

  

* * *

 

 

John awoke to the sound of water dripping through the cracks in the ceiling. He didn’t mind the noise, and it guaranteed them a steady water supply throughout the night – a luxury other platoons didn’t have.

The bucket was almost full, and John clambered out of his sleeping sack into the bitter cold air to drink some of the precious liquid. It always tasted slightly metallic, as the water corroded the iron rods inside the concrete. He imagined that the water on the surface world must taste very bland, since it came straight from a “reservoir”. John had once watched a TV programme about the water cycle, and he was fascinated by the way in which water was recycled: from the river to the trees to the air. It was a pity that the TV set had been moved to Company B. Now John had only a tattered pile of books, which he knew off by heart, to amuse him.

Murray was stirring in the space next to his, but Zero and Slightly remained unmoving, misshapen lumps under their blankets.

“Sarge,” muttered Murray as John slurped down the ice-cold water in the tin bucket, “are you really going to do this?”

“What?”

“That dirty bomb.”

“Yes,” stated John, as though it were a universal truth.

“I don’t like it.”

Murray had a habit of thinking too much. Zero called it paranoia – probably because that was the only impressive-sounding word he knew – but John liked the way Murray thought twice about everything. 

“Why?”

“Remember that drone we found near King’s Cross?”

“What about it?”

“Remember how the red light didn’t come on when it got within jamming range?”

“Just a problem with the drone, not our jammers.”

“I think it transmitted your picture before we fried its circuits.”

Now Murray really _was_ being paranoid. The LRA had long since developed jamming equipment to prevent the drones from uploading anything more than images of empty tunnels when soldiers were around. This particular mission was the first time John had ever been specifically ordered to destroy a drone. Mostly the unmanned aircraft were left to their own devices to wander the tunnels. Five years of constant drone patrols had never once caused the Government forces to raid the Underground. Although it was a strange order, John knew better than to ask questions. Surveillance drones occasionally did get destroyed by cave-ins or old booby traps left over from the Second World War; losing one drone out of several thousand was hardly going to make the government suspicious.

“You’re worrying too much,” whispered John as he crawled back under his blankets. Some people might think his bedding smelt atrocious, but John enjoyed the strong, musty odour that he associated with sleep and comfort.

“But _what if_?”

“Then we would all be dead by now,” replied John calmly, “and we’re not, so obviously there’s nothing to worry about.”

“They’re biding their time up there,” muttered Murray, more to himself than to John, “they know we’re down here trapped like rats and they’re going to smoke us out.”

John didn’t bother to listen to the rest of Murray’s thoughts. His mission started tomorrow: a mission that would end the British Empire forever and bring freedom to the world. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Production Notes_
> 
>  
> 
> The basic premise is that ten years ago Moriarty first showed up on MI5’s radar as an up and coming terrorist leader. Sherlock, who had been seconded to MI5 by Mycroft after spending years wandering the continent on a massive drug binge, was sent to infiltrate Moriarty’s organisation. While there, he met Irene, who was working for Moriarty at the time.  
> They found each other’s minds mutually fascinating, and it was the start of a tempestuous relationship spanning nearly a decade. Their physical relationship started when she was still working for Moriarty, and Sherlock was posing as a new member of his organisation. Now they’ve mellowed out – sort of like an old married couple, but obviously much less confined by social norms. She stops by at his apartment between missions and helps to sort out his life.
> 
>  
> 
> **Authors Notes**
> 
> I found Irene/Sherlock surprisingly enjoyable to write because I had the chance to make her my own character whilst trying to keep the essence of her character true to the series. She is still the independent, intelligent, daring woman she is in ASIB but in this AU she is most definitely _on the side of the angels_ but she is also most definitely not one of them. 
> 
> The Sherlock/Irene relationship turned out into a sort of hybrid between physical attraction and intellectual fascination interspersed with moments of playfulness. 
> 
> Comments very welcome.


	3. The Good Doctor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again - thank you to my wonderful betas whom this story is dedicated to. I've had some wonderful reviews from people so far and they have really made my day. 
> 
> As a treat everyone gets to see what wee!John looks like in my imagination!
> 
> Once again there are production notes at the bottom of this chapter with a little bit more information about the characters

 

 

 

 

 

Four days into the joint mission with MI5, Sherlock was ready to murder Sally Donovan. Out of all his former colleagues, Sally was the one person he least wanted to work with again. Apparently, in the intervening three years nothing had happened to either cool her ire or dampen her hate. They had been confined together in a small conference room inside MI5 headquarter at Thames House for the last hour rehearsing Sherlock’s cover story as Dr Sigerson, and tempers were fraying on both sides.

“Freak, you’re supposed to remember this by now,” she snapped.

“I _do_ remember it all. Your face is distracting my _thoughts._ ” For a moment he thought she might slap him – which would have made for an entertaining two minutes of combat before he subdued her – but instead, she threw down the pile of cue cards and stormed across the room. “I thought you said we weren’t done yet,” said Sherlock smugly.

“We’re not,” hissed Sally, turning to face him in the doorway. “I’m getting _coffee_.”

“Black, two sugars,” ordered Sherlock.

She slammed the door in his face, which Sherlock thought was incredibly childish of a woman who spent so much of her life complaining about his unprofessional behaviour.

Greg Lestrade, the head of Section D at the counter-terrorism branch and Sherlock’s former boss, came in seconds later with a weary expression and more grey hairs than Sherlock remembered.

“Nice to see you’re back on form,” muttered Lestrade, rubbing his stubble-covered chin. The man had clearly spent the last three days sleeping in his office.

“Wife off with…let me think…PE teacher?” asked Sherlock, though even he knew it was somewhat petty to voice this now.

“Geography teacher actually,” replied Lestrade calmly. “We’re getting a divorce.”

For a moment Sherlock was at a loss for what to say. Divorce, he’d been told, was one of life’s worst experiences. If this was true, he couldn’t fathom why people got married in the first place. Still, he felt somewhat obliged to change the subject. “I can’t work with Donovan.”

Lestrade gave him a half-hearted glare. “There’s always Anderson.”

“ _Not_ Anderson, _never_ Anderson,” bit Sherlock. “Don’t you remember that he blew my cover in the Congo? I was _this close_ to catching Moriarty!”

“You went off the grid! You were also _this close_ to blowing our entire African operation,” said Lestrade, raising his booming voice. “We had to shut you down.”

“And because of you, Moriarty lived long enough to get his hands on a nuclear bomb!”

“I thought you told Irene that you were over this. Jesus Christ, Sherlock, the man’s _dead_. He’s been dead for two years.” Lestrade sounded, if possible, even more tired than before. His posture sagged as if the weight on his shoulders was too much to bear.

“I can’t be bothered to argue with you right now,” hissed Sherlock, “but you are the ones who are taking over _my_ operation.”

“Don’t kid yourself into thinking we wanted to do this either,” muttered Lestrade, “but heaven knows working with you is not as bad as letting London become a radioactive wasteland.”

Sally appeared a moment later with two cups of coffee, neither of which was for Sherlock. “Time to get back to work, freak,” said Sally with an acrid tone, as she picked up the cue cards.

“Well, try to make it easier for everyone by turning to face the wall,” replied Sherlock with false politeness.

“Sherlock!” Greg Lestrade sounded frustrated, but there was just a hint of amusement in his tone that suggested perhaps he had missed Sherlock’s particular brand of interpersonal communication.

“You know what,” continued Lestrade, sipping his coffee, “go and rehearse your backstory with Irene instead. She’s back from her meeting with the Joint Intelligence Committee.”

Sally looked set to complain, but quickly came to the realisation that having to spend more time with Sherlock was far worse than the insult of having her job handed to Irene. Sherlock, meanwhile, had already raced out of the room with Sally’s cue cards in hand.

 

* * *

 

 

Irene was wearing a smart business suit today and her voluminous, dark hair was pulled back into a professional bun. She looked exquisitely dangerous, and it aroused all the base instincts that Sherlock usually worked hard to suppress – though at this moment, he was making very little attempt to do so. Irene, who knew him far too well, merely gave Sherlock a withering look before sitting down and studying the cue cards.

“The rebels have never met Dr Sigerson,” stated Irene, “they have no idea what he looks like, or what his voice sounds like. Our sources have also reassured us that the LRA have no idea what Sherlock Holmes looks like, so your job isn’t going to be very difficult.”

“I do have to invent a persona, though.”

“Arrogant, detached and utterly delusional,” replied Irene.

“Are you describing me or Dr Sigerson?”

There was a wicked curl to Irene’s lips. “You know what the big problem with any disguise is, Mr Holmes? However hard you try, it’s always a self-portrait.”

Sherlock couldn’t help the smile spreading across his features at the reference to their first-ever meeting, ten years ago. She had said exactly the same thing to him as he sat on her couch in a ridiculously obvious disguise whilst she happily pranced around stark naked, proving the point that even the great Sherlock Holmes could be distracted by the beguiling feminine form in all its natural glory – particularly when the form in question was also exquisitely dangerous and devastatingly intelligent.

“You think I’m a vicar with a bleeding face,” he replied right on cue.

“No, I think you’re damaged, delusional and believe in a higher power,” replied Irene, leaning forward so far in her seat that their faces were just inches apart.

Although she had aged since their first explosive meeting, time had only made her more extraordinary. Sherlock was beginning to think he would never unravel the mystery that was Irene Adler, and deep down he didn’t really want to.

“Shall we continue, Mr Holmes?” she asked, primly satisfied.

 He nodded impassively, putting the brief moment of amusement behind him and focusing his mind on the mission.

“I am Dr Lars Sigerson, date of birth: 4th of May 1977. I grew up in Stockholm and went to a government school – The Hans Christensen International – where I developed a fascination with electronics. I studied electrical engineering at the University of Stockholm and set up my own company, manufacturing circuit boards for the timed explosives used in mining operations. The company became insolvent in June 2007 due to the international credit crisis and I lost everything. Disillusioned with the capitalist system and blaming the British Empire for my misfortune, I became radicalised by a small group of European fanatics called the Frihet Allians. I honed my bomb-making skills for the terror cell and gathered an extensive group of secret international contacts. I first met an LRA contact in May 2012 and after much debate decided to provide them my expertise. The LRA are not just expecting me, but also the whole service package: logistics, materials, etc.”

“Yes, and I will have the joy of posing as your procurement expert,” replied Irene with a wry smile.

“I’m sure you’re looking forward to it,” deadpanned Sherlock.

“Well, Dr Sigerson, I think we are ready release you into the wild.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Meeting new people was something John always enjoyed. The turnover of soldiers in Company C was fast, and new faces appeared at regular intervals. Some of them came from exotic-sounding countries like “Congo” and “Egypt”. John loved to hear stories about these mysterious places: about the camels, pyramids, jungles and lions.

 John was especially excited to meet Dr Sigerson because he had never met a doctor before. He imagined the man would be wearing a gleaming white coat, like the doctors on TV, with multiple-coloured pens in his top pocket; or perhaps Dr Sigerson would be wearing a smart suit with matching tie and carrying a big leather briefcase, like the doctors on TV who weren’t really _doctors_.

He’d met very few people actually from London who liked to talk to him about the surface world. Seb always muttered darkly about corruption and suffering, but from what John had seen on TV, the surface people looked just as happy as he was – and they had things like sunshine and grass. When he was younger John had wanted to see grass more than anything else in the world, but when he’d told Seb about it, the captain had snapped at him to stop daydreaming.

Sunshine was another thing that John had wanted to see, but on his first-ever mission above ground he’d been shocked by the intense light. He was convinced for several long hours that he was going blind, and he desperately wanted to run back into the dark comfort of the Underground. Eventually he got used to the light and the heat, but he never got used to the _noise_. The noise of cars, people, birds, animals – all jumbled together and amplified by his sensitive ears. He found it hard to cope with the cacophony, and even as he lined up his sniper scope to shoot the Home Secretary, he couldn’t block out the sounds of the pigeons cooing and fluttering on the rooftops. It was a good thing that shooting had become second nature to John, or he would have missed.

Perhaps Dr Sigerson would tell him more about the surface. Although he didn’t relish the thought of actually setting foot there once again, his curiosity pushed him to find out more about the strange world just metres above his head.

 

Murray and John were currently sitting on the disused railway tracks firing pebbles at the wall. The glow orbs hanging from the ceiling above the platform weaved slowly from side to side as a gust of wind swept through the tunnel. The old wall tiles the young soldiers aimed for were so thick with dust and grime that it was almost impossible to make out the words painted at regular intervals on the enamel. Every time a pebble hit the wall, it would leave a dust-free mark.

Once, out of curiosity, John had wiped away the dirt to read the name of the old Underground station. It was called _E-u-s-t-o-n,_ but the name meant nothing to him, and he didn’t really know how to pronounce such a strange word. The remnants of his cleaning effort still stood out from the rest of the station, a bright patch of colour amidst the gloom.

“We could go on the slide,” suggested Murray as his pebble bounced off the wall with a ping. “This game is getting boring.”

John looked over his shoulder towards the disused escalators and the smooth metal barrier that separated each set of steps. The slide was his favourite pastime apart from reading, but Captain Moran didn’t like seeing the boys playing on it. They weren’t really supposed to be playing at all, but base patrol was incredibly boring. Nothing ever ventured this deep into the Underground; the most dangerous creatures John had ever seen here were rats.

The sound of running came echoing through the disused station, and Slightly came tumbling down the steps onto the platform.

“Dr Sigerson’s arrived; you need to go to the meeting room!” he said breathlessly. “I’m supposed to take your place on patrol.”

John jumped up and flung his weapon at Slightly without even bothering to see if the other boy had caught it. He clambered nimbly onto the platform and dashed off towards the disused bunkers that now served as military briefing rooms. As he climbed the long flight of black metal steps towards the top level of their base, he almost wished the stairs themselves could move, as Seb said they once had done.

By the time he got to the meeting room, John was aware that everyone had already gathered for the briefing. Seb was standing against the wall, and when the captain gave him a grim nod. John beamed back at him, filled with pride at his idol’s acknowledgement.

Colonel Madine, Brigadier Cracken and General Dodonna were sitting at the head of the oval table, with identical stern expressions. John tried to stand straighter and smooth out the frayed uniform he was wearing. He was acutely aware that the shirt was too big for him and the trousers too short, but he wanted to look as smart as possible for the top brass and the doctor.

There was no fanfare to accompany the arrival of Dr Sigerson, despite how important John had been told this man was. Instead the good doctor appeared in the doorway completely alone, as if he’d made his own way here. To John’s disappointment, he wasn’t wearing a white coat or a suit; instead, he was dressed in a long, dark overcoat and blue scarf. He didn’t look old, like the doctors on TV, and he didn’t have a kindly smile, either. This man possessed strange, exotic features: sharp, high cheekbones, a long chin and unnerving black eyes.

“Dr Sigerson, thank you for coming,” said Madine, though John thought his tone wasn’t very welcoming. “Letting you come into our base is a demonstration of our great trust in you. I hope you will not abuse it.”

Dr Sigerson smiled, but it wasn’t a real smile. His cold, black eyes remained unchanged even though the corners of his mouth turned upwards. “I appreciate it.”

“We’ve invited you here to discuss the logistics of carrying out a bombing in central London,” continued Madine, without inviting Dr Sigerson to sit down.

John hovered next to the door, both awed and frightened. Dr Sigerson was much taller than he had imagined, and John tilted his head backwards to get a better look at the man’s face. At the same moment, Dr Sigerson looked down and straight into John’s wide eyes.

John was petrified; he could feel the dark black eyes boring into his mind and rooting through all his thoughts and secrets. Finally, Dr Sigerson looked away, and John let out the shaky breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

“I need to know where and when,” demanded Dr Sigerson, taking a seat at the table despite the lack of an invitation. “I also need to know exactly who will be involved.”

“We are not at liberty to divulge that information at the current moment,” replied Cracken flatly. “You will be informed in due time. For now we just want to discuss what you’re able to do with the bomb.”

John listened with rapt attention to the rest of the meeting, as electronics and bomb wiring were discussed in minute detail. Some of the concepts he understood, but others sounded completely foreign to his ears. A bright array of diagrams was passed around the table, and John craned his neck to get a glimpse of the plans.

Finally, when the details had been agreed upon, Dr Sigerson rose and walked towards the door. “I’ll need to see the bomb now,” he stated in a flat tone.

“Sergeant Watson will take you,” said Seb, and John almost jumped out of his skin. Although it was a great honour to be part of this mission, he didn’t want to be alone with this strange man who didn’t conform to his ideas of what a doctor should be.

Dr Sigerson was staring at him again, and John felt the hair prickling at the back of his neck.

“Yes, sir,” he stammered, and gave a passable salute. John walked quickly out of the room without looking back to see if Dr Sigerson was following him, half-hoping that he wouldn’t.

It didn’t take long for the sounds of conversation from the meeting room to disappear completely; the Underground tunnels seemed to have a supernatural ability to swallow and muffle sound. Soon only the sharp clicking of Dr Sigerson’s footsteps could be heard reverberating through the hallway. John almost wanted to turn back to look at the shoes this stranger was wearing, but he didn’t dare. Instead he cautiously opened the door to his platoon’s sleeping quarters and stepped aside to allow Dr Sigerson entry.

The tall, dark figure wrinkled his nose in disgust and surveyed the room with a pinched expression. “Do you live here?” he demanded imperiously.

“Yeah…sir,” muttered John, trying not to make eye contact.

“It’s filthy.”

John didn’t think his billet was filthy, but maybe it was by surface standards. They didn’t have much water, so no one ever washed their clothes or bedding. He tried to make sure that any rubbish was thrown away every morning, and the boys dusted the place down every week or so.

“It’s the best we can do,” replied John, raising his voice as much as he dared.

Dr Sigerson swivelled his head around to look at John, and this time John forced himself to stare back into the deep, black eyes. “I never said it was your fault,” conceded Dr Sigerson as he rested his hand on the table. “Is that the bomb?”

“Yes, sir,” said John, and he reached over to undo the padlock that Seb had fastened to the footlocker.

Dr Sigerson peered into the locker for what seemed like an eternity before straightening up with a sigh. “It needs a lot of work,” he concluded. “It’s even more basic than I imagined.”

John wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to relay this to his superior officers or just pretend he didn’t hear anything.

“How old are you?” asked the doctor out of the blue, and John blinked in confusion. He had no idea how old he was and his age had never been an issue.

He opened his mouth to speak, but Dr Sigerson cut him off.

“You’re at least nine, maybe ten: you’ve finished losing most of your milk teeth but haven’t yet grown all your premolars. There’s still one tooth loose on the right-hand side; you keep worrying it with your tongue.” Dr Sigerson spoke the words like a spate of gunfire, sharp and fast, until the sentences blurred into each other.

“The callus over your left trigger finger: you’re left-handed and a good shot – sniper. Your shirt is newer than your trousers: wounded in battle – torso or shoulder – used your old shirt to bandage the wound; it was ripped beyond repair. You love to read; books are your life: you squint into the distance because of your short-sightedness, no doubt developed over years of trying to read in such dim light. Your books were salvaged from an abandoned library when you were much younger; you only took the books with pictures in them, except for that dictionary which you picked up by mistake because of the pictures on the cover.”

The confusion gave way to all-encompassing astonishment. John was rendered speechless as his mind belatedly processed the torrent of information washing over him. Never had he imagined Dr Sigerson would be so _extraordinary._ “That – that was _brilliant_ ,” whispered John, staring up at this genius of a man, all his previous misgivings instantly vanishing.

Dr Sigerson looked confused for a moment, and John was suddenly afraid that his praise wasn’t good enough for such an awe-inspiring person.

“You think it was impressive?”

“Yes,” said John breathlessly, “it’s amazing, marvellous, wonderful, stunning!”

Dr Sigerson looked down at him and for the first time broke into a genuine grin that melted his cold, hard eyes. “Thank you, John,” he said as the corners of his eyes crinkled with the smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Production notes: Sherlock’s backstory_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Ever since he infiltrated Moriarty’s operation ten years ago, and thoroughly failed to capture/kill the man, Sherlock has been obsessed with hunting Moriarty down. His obsession finally led him to be sacked from MI5 because he completely disregarded standard procedures and nearly blew the cover of hundreds of operatives. This is the Congo mission that Sherlock refers to in the chapter. It’s going to get dragged up in future chapters as it is central to the bad feelings between Sherlock and his former colleagues. 
> 
> Moriarty was ironically killed by MI6 instead, depriving Sherlock of the chance to reprieve himself. However soon after Moriarty’s reported death Sherlock became convinced that Moriarty was still alive somewhere out there. Unfortunately the intelligence community begs to differ and his utter conviction has led him to be labelled “insane” and “unstable”. He has spent the last two years operating independently, using his old contacts as a freelance intelligence operative for Mycroft. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Author's Notes**
> 
>  
> 
> I felt the first meeting between John and Sherlock was a difficult one to write. What would their dynamic be like if there was this huge age difference? Not to mention the life experiences that John has are incredibly unconventional. I settled very much for trying to keep them as close to their canon counterparts as possible. John is still in awe of Sherlock, but this is magnified by the fact that he is just a child. Sherlock having been shunned, insulted and stigmatized for the last few years finds John’s sincere and utter adoration a welcome breath of fresh air.
> 
> **Please take the time to leave a comment or hit the kudos button. At least this way I know there are people actually reading the stuff I write!**


	4. The Spider and the Fly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Trishkafibble and DT my beta readers who made this all possible. As usual there are production notes at the end for a little bit more information about the AU and the characters.

 

 

**Chapter 4 - The Spider and the Fly**

 

“So you used your powers of deduction on the kid,” said Lestrade incredulously as he fingered through Sherlock’s report.  
Rebel jamming equipment had meant that none of the conversations in the Underground could be recorded by any device, and Lestrade was forced to rely on Sherlock’s report to piece together the day’s intelligence.  
  
  
Sherlock didn’t answer him at first, because the socially inept agent was too busy pulling coloured contact lenses out of his eyes. Lestrade turned away in disgust and slurped down some coffee to pass the time. He was forced to put his mug down when Sherlock flicked his used lenses into the bin and slammed both hands down on Lestrade’s desk with a resounding thud.  
  
  
“The point is,” snapped Sherlock, “that kid has been living down there all his life! He asked me what grass felt like and why pigeons cooed so loudly.”  
  
  
“Alright, so there’s a Rebel base directly under our feet, we missed it, and we’re sorry you were dragged through the mud on this one,” replied Lestrade calmly. In truth he knew that Sherlock’s obsession with the Underground theory was just a small part of the problem. Even if the maverick secret agent hadn’t become fixated on the idea that there was a secret rebel base in the London Underground, he would still have been drummed out of MI5 eventually. His even greater obsession with catching Moriarty at all costs and his blatant contempt for protocol would have seen to that.  
  
  
“You’re sorry?” hissed Sherlock, “After all these years  _you’re just sorry?_ ”  
  
  
“Sherlock, you and I both know you would’ve been kicked out of the Service anyway. This was just an excuse to fire you when they did. I know your life hasn’t been easy since then –”  
  
  
Sherlock laughed bitterly and flung himself back down into his chair with unnecessary force.  
  
  
“– I know it’s not been easy, but haven’t I always said you don’t belong here? You’re not suited to life in MI5 – the rules and regulations were choking you to death.”  
  
  
Sherlock sneered but didn’t meet his eye.  
  
  
“Look, once this is over you can go back to doing your freelance stuff, chasing down terrorists however you like,” muttered Lestrade, pinching the bridge of his nose in a vain attempt to keep at bay the pounding headache he could feel developing in the front of his skull.  
  
  
“You don’t understand, do you?” said Sherlock, suddenly jumping from his seat and leaning over Lestrade’s desk like a bird of prey. “God, what does it feel like to be inside your tiny little mind?”  
  
  
“Painful.”  
  
“Moriarty!” Sherlock shouted, pounding his fist down on Lestrade’s desk and sending droplets of coffee spewing from his Starbucks mug. “Moriarty is going to be there!”  
  
“Sherlock, if you can’t be reasonable –”  
  
“ _This_ is his moment of crowning glory,  _this_  is what he has been waiting for all his life: to blow up the Houses of Parliament and reduce London to dust. He’s not going to hide in the shadows and let some crony plan the details. He’s going to appear, Lestrade.  _This_ is our best opportunity to catch him.”  
  
  
“Forgive me,  _Sherlock_ , but I’ve had enough of your bright ideas for a lifetime. This mission isn’t about Moriarty, because he’s  _dead_. It’s about saving London from a dirty bomb.”  
  
  
“Catching Moriarty would save the whole world!”  
  
  
Lestrade gave him a long, weary look; he’d heard it all before. All he wanted now was to go home and forget he had ever met Sherlock Holmes.  
  
  
“Lestrade, you have to listen to me!”  
  
  
“No, I don’t.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Finding Mycroft wasn’t hard, given Sherlock’s resources and prodigious talent at tracking people. However, breaking into his office during his brother’s protected lunch hour was quite another matter. He made it as far as the outer office before the bane of his life stepped through a side door and levelled him with a sardonic smile.  
  
  
“Good morning, Sherlock, what brings you here in that handsome coat of yours?”  
  
  
Sherlock knew the woman standing in front of him was 5ft 6in (five-foot-eight in high heels) and weighed 100 pounds – except when she was on a conjoined diet with her husband, when her weight generally dropped to 90. More importantly, should he choose to engage her in combat, she would be able to snap his neck in under a minute…if she was feeling merciful.  
  
  
“I need to meet with my brother.”  
  
  
“Mmm…considering you scaled ten floors and climbed through a ventilation duct to get in here, I assume you already know he’s not available.”  
  
  
“Good deduction,  _Anthea,_ ” said Sherlock sarcastically.  
  
  
“In which case, please come back when you actually have an appointment,  _Sherlock._  Oh, and tell my darling sister that she’s invited for dinner tonight at seven and she’s to bring that charming boyfriend of hers….”  
  
  
Anthea gave him a toothy smile that made him feel like the imminent loser in a game of cat and mouse. Gathering his wits about him, Sherlock curled his lip back at her. “Irene isn’t coming, and neither am I, for that matter. I’m sure Mummy thinks it would be awfully convenient if I married your sister like you married my brother, but it’s  _not going to happen._ ”  
  
  
“What? You don’t want to go on a double date?” asked Anthea, pantomiming a string of sad expressions.  
  
  
“I’d rather blow up Buckingham Palace,” spat Sherlock.  
  
  
“Well, that’s good to know,” interjected the smug voice of Mycroft Holmes as he stepped elegantly out of his office, holding a plate of half-eaten chocolate cake in one hand and a newspaper in the other.  
  
  
“How’s the diet?” snarled Sherlock, whilst glaring at his brother in disgust.  
  
  
“ _Fine,_  now tell me what you are doing in my office.”  
  
  
“Lestrade!”  
  
“– is a fine, upstanding Intelligence Officer.”  
  
“I can’t work with him. He refuses to believe me about Moriarty!”  
  
Anthea rolled her eyes dramatically and slipped off into Mycroft’s office to attend to more important matters.  
  
“Can you blame the man?” asked Mycroft, tilting his head down and looking up at his brother. “You almost destroyed his career.”  
  
“If Anderson and Donovan hadn’t blown my cover in the Congo –”  
  
“– you might still have returned empty-handed. Sherlock, we are not doing this all over again. Lestrade is commanding this operation; you will answer to him if you want to stay in the loop.”  
  
“Or what? You’ll throw me off this mission?  _You_  wanted me to take it in the first place.”  
  
“Only because I knew you would gut the entire country looking for a ghost if I didn’t. Little brother, it is time to move on.”  
  
“Why? Because it’s more convenient for your lazy government to believe that Moriarty is dead than to face up to the evidence that he’s still out there?”  
  
“Sherlock!” growled Mycroft, finally beginning to lose his temper. “The evidence you provided to the Select Committee amounted to nothing more than circumstantial hearsay from a bunch of homeless people you _paid_  to be ‘informants’.”  
  
“Can’t you see, they are the people who can get the closest to the LRA, the people least likely to be suspected –”  
  
“We have our own sources, thank you very much, even if they are not in the Underground. Now if you have nothing reasonable to say, I have a cardiologist’s appointment in ten minutes.”  
  
Sherlock scowled at his brother and wondered if he could get away with making a remark about the man’s arrhythmic heart, but Mycroft was already turning to leave.  
  
“They didn’t blindfold me inside the base, you know,” said Sherlock abruptly. “Don’t you think that’s unusual?”  
  
“Sherlock, the Underground covers over a thousand miles of tunnels; as long as you can’t find your way back there from the surface, there is no reason for them to fear you. Remember, dinner at seven.”  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The old Euston station platform was deserted, the once-white tiles smeared with decades of dust. Behind the curtain of grey, one could still make out the blue circles and red lines that symbolised the London Underground, which had transported millions of people across the city at the height of its glory. Now rats, mice, and other creatures had become the masters of this domain, scuttling noisily through the tunnels where trains used to hurtle past. The platform was illuminated by numerous small, hanging glow orbs – which provided a mellow, orange light from chemical reactions – to conserve electricity. The old iron benches, covered with pieces of salvaged cardboard, provided beds for the members of Company C.  
  
  
Inside the transit tunnels leading away from the platform, the constant dripping of rainwater leaking from the world above produced intricate patterns of mould and mildew on the once-lifeless concrete walls. Long, snaking rivulets of green, brown and yellow were spaced at regular intervals, marking the original construction joints. The darkness was kept at bay by white emergency lights dotted sparsely throughout the tunnels, connected to the electric substation humming away constantly in the Company C base.  
  
  
Evening was a  _good_  part of the day for John, when the frantic bustle died down to something resembling peace. The everyday sounds he was constantly surrounded with suddenly became so much clearer. He could hear the low the rustle of ancient debris rolling down the disused tracks and the scuttling of numerous animals wandering about.  
  
  
The best creature John had ever met was a small yellow dog…or at least it’d become yellow once he had wiped the grime off its coat. The platoon had adopted it as their unofficial mascot and named the overexcited, yapping thing “Hoot”. Sadly, it didn’t live very long, and once it died the officers decided there was not much point in letting good meat go to waste. John had kept the collar and tag, though. The tag was engraved with an address on the front, a place called Eaton Square. He like to imagine he would be able to find the owners someday, when he was finally free to go the surface. He wanted to them that Hoot hadn’t been alone when he’d died, that he had been loved to the end of his days.  
  
  
 John suddenly wondered if anyone would be able to tell his family the same thing. It was strange that he would start thinking about this  _now,_  of all times. It had never crossed his mind very much before, but since meeting Dr Sigerson from the surface, John had been daydreaming more often about the world above his head. He still got shivers of fear down his spine at the memory of the light and the terrible noise, and all those strange yet wonderful people in outlandish clothes. It was almost as if he’d lived his whole life in black and white, then for a brief moment glimpsed true  _colour_. It terrified and fascinated him in equal measure.  
  
  
“You down there?” asked the deep, commanding voice of Captain Moran.  
  
“Yes, Seb,” he called out from the tracks.  
  
Heavy, thudding footsteps came closer, and Seb stepped calmly off the platform onto the tracks below.  
  
“That Sigerson fellow,” he said curtly, “what did he say to you?”  
  
John blinked at his hero, commanding officer, and sometimes fantasy father. “He looked at the bomb and asked me how old I was.”  
“That it?” demanded Seb, looking down at him from a great height.  
  
John nodded emphatically; he thought it was best not to mention how Dr Sigerson had guessed his life story from just one look, or how he had smiled at John. No one in Company C trusted the stranger from the surface, and John really, desperately wanted to see Dr Sigerson again.  
  
“Strange fellow,” muttered Seb, more to himself than to John, “I don’t trust him.” Then he turned back to John, who was listening attentively, as always. “You’ll be prepping the bomb tomorrow.”  
  
John stared back at his Captain and father figure, hoping he would clasp his shoulder or ruffle his hair…but the man climbed back onto the platform without a backward glance, leaving him alone in the shadows.  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
That evening Sherlock lay on the sofa with three nicotine patches lined up on his forearm, enjoying the stimulant as it diffused slowly into his bloodstream and floated into his brain. The pieces of the puzzle were still rolling around erratically inside his mind despite a dedicated afternoon of thought.  
  
  
 _This was a three patch problem._  
  
  
The first anomaly was the surveillance drone. These drones had been in active deployment for nearly ten years, ever since the first suggestion that the LRA had set up a base inside the disused Underground.  _Why, after ten years of constant patrols, had the surveillance drone finally caught something on camera?_  
  
  
The second anomaly was the boy,  _John Watson_. He was physically less impressive in person, a small runt with dirty-blond hair and clothes stiffened by layers of grim – but in his eyes Sherlock had seen the bravery and resolve of a righteous soldier. John was at once so innocent, yet wise beyond his years; a rare paradox that could only exist in such an extraordinary child.  
  
  
Sherlock took out the photo of John and looked once more into the boy’s wide eyes. He couldn’t comprehend what an entire life lived in the damp, dark tunnels of the Underground was like – a life without family or school or even the most basic necessities, a life lived at the whim of the most dangerous of terrorists. What kind of person had this life produced: a hardened war criminal, or a confused little boy? _Could this child really detonate a bomb that would wipe out the population of London?_  
  
  
He tucked the photo away inside the inner pocket of his suit and placed his thoughts of John back into their dedicated compartment of his mind palace.  
  
  
The third anomaly was the bomb. As far as Sherlock’s personal sources – whom he had cultivated on his own terms for the last decade – could tell, no nuclear material had been reported missing by any of the official (or unofficial) nuclear powers. Iran, India, and Pakistan had all of their uranium accounted for. China was missing two nuclear warheads, but only because the Russian spies had stolen them last week; and Russia herself was smugly assured that her arsenal of mass destruction was in its rightful place along the border with Britain’s ally, the state of Georgia.  
  
  
 _Where had Moriarty gotten the uranium for his dirty bomb? And even granting the uranium, how had he managed to assemble it into a leak-free explosive device?_  Nuclear experts were few and far between, particularly those that could convincingly fly under the radar of the British Government.  
  
  
The fourth and most important anomaly was Moriarty himself: the cunning, pernicious spider whose intricate web of lies and deceit spanned the globe. Like all successful insects, he knew when to hide and when to strike.  Sherlock had devoted his life after leaving MI5 to cornering Moriarty, but like a phantom in the night, this vicious, scheming predator had so far evaded him. He had spent countless hours without sleep or nourishment, feverishly assembling information about this ethereal monster, starting from the moment Moriarty had first appeared over a decade ago. He had no official clearance, but through old partners and indebted allies, he had managed to compile an almanac of data, despite being hindered at every turn by the establishment.  
  
  
The docile, short-sighted bureaucrats who ran the Intelligence Services wanted to believe they had eliminated this threat. They didn’t have the courage to face the truth that right now Moriarty was biding his time, waiting for the fat, senseless fly to zoom right into the sticky tendrils of his web, before devouring it at his leisure.  
  
  
  
Suddenly his mobile started to vibrate, instantly bringing Sherlock back from the fascinating world of his mind palace.  
“Have you gotten what I wanted?” he demanded abruptly into the mouthpiece, without even looking at the caller ID.  
  
  
“Hello to you too, Sherlock,” said the deadpan voice at the other end of the line. “I’m guessing you’re in no mood to exchange pleasantries.”  
  
The caller was far too accustomed to Sherlock’s moods to actually be offended. “I have got the documents –or rather the  _document_  – you’ve been looking for, and even though it’s none of my business, can I just tell you that getting some to dig into your girlfriend’s past behind her back is depraved.”  
  
  
Sherlock scowled up at the ceiling. “You’re right, it is none of your business, but it’s to do with  _Moriarty,_  not Irene. Send a scanned copy to my computer over a secure connection.”  
  
  
“Sherlock,” replied the disembodied voice in an officious tone,“I work for Six, all our connections are secure.”  
  
That remark made Sherlock break into a wry smile. “If that’s what you think, Q….”  
  
Sherlock hung up, curling his lips into a slow, satisfied smile.

 

* * *

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
>  _Production Notes:_   
>  **
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Mycroft is the British Government, he actually runs the entire British Empire and is the most powerful man alive. The Queen and the Prime Minister are mere figureheads. His power is unlimited and unchecked; defying him is never an option unless you enjoy spending the rest of your short life undergoing “questioning” deep underground. He is the epitome of Machiavelli’s ideal ruler utter ruthless and yet able to maintain a beguiling display of respectability and benevolence. 
> 
> Anthea is his wife, Sherlock’s sister-in-law and Irene’s older sister. She married Mycroft before he took power and she is considered to be his partner in every respect. In the intelligence community she is known as the “master puppeteer” because many people believe that Mycroft might run the Empire but Anthea runs Mycroft. Irene’s relationship with her sister is complicated and in some way a reflection of the Holme’s brothers’ – I don’t get the chance to explore their relationship very much in this story but I do in the sequel.
> 
> Q is the Quartermaster of MI6 (think Ben Whimshaw in Skyfall, who I based him on). He’s not going to remain a disembodied voice over the phone for very long. He's also got his own character banner.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Please take the time to leave kudos or write a comment - feedback means a great deal to me and shows me that someone actually enjoys my writing!**


	5. Good and Bad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for their kind reviews and to my beta readers who have dedicated so much time and energy to this project.

 

 

Dinner with Mycroft would be insufferable…so Sherlock decided to skip the compulsory appointment and take Irene to Angelo’s instead. The plump Italian was overjoyed to see his favourite friend with a lady, and brought out two candles to make the occasion doubly romantic. Unfortunately, it only served to get twice as much wax stuck to the table.

Irene looked like she was thoroughly enjoying her linguini, while Sherlock stared out of the window at Northampton Street and the dark, sleek cabs passing slowly by.

“Expecting company?” she quipped with light amusement, stretching one foot out to massage his calf under the table. A frisson of unexpected pleasure tingled in his nerves, threatening to preoccupy his mind with a completely different kind of problem to the one he had been contemplating.

“No,” he murmured, “just watching.”

“For Moriarty?” asked Irene with a wicked smile “Lestrade was almost in tears this afternoon. I had to feed him half a bottle of whiskey.”

“Apparently, Moriarty is dead and I’m expected toe the party line.”

“Chasing ghosts is never healthy; you’ll only catch a chill.”

Sherlock suppressed a smile at the terrible pun, but Irene knew him far too well by now to miss the amusement in his eyes.

“I mean it, Sherlock, it’s not good for you.”

“I know,” he said quietly, shifting his leg forward to gain more contact with her thigh. “I’ve been told that three times today.”

Irene studied his profile silently for a moment. Someone who didn’t know her well might have thought she was scrutinising her partner, but Sherlock could see the subtle hint of compassion in her eyes. Irene knew what it was like to be so completely absorbed and obsessed by the hunt. She understood the painful, humiliating experience of failing to complete a mission – and the deep, driving need to make up for that failure.

Sherlock gazed back at her, quietly accepting her empathy, until Irene decided to broach the subject of his mission.

“How was your commute?” she asked, clearly indicating his trip to the Underground.

“Uneventful, but I have many questions.”

“You always do.”

Irene smiled warmly, all trace of anxiety gone from her expression. She was watching him fondly, as if lost in happy thoughts of their shared past. The couple continued to sit in comfortable silence together: Sherlock gazing out the window and Irene daintily eating her meal. If only they could stay like this forever, secure in this moment of time and their love for each other – despite an uncertain future and haunting regrets from the past.

Suddenly the jarring sound of Irene’s new ringtone broke the peace.

“It’s Lestrade,” she sighed. “I hope he’s actually left the office…. Lestrade?” Indistinguishable noises emanated from the phone. “A body? Shouldn’t this be left to the police? ...No, I understand…. Yes, I’ll bring Sherlock.”

She hung up, looking puzzled and anxious, the rapidly-cooling linguini in front of her completely forgotten. “Lestrade has found a body and he needs you to ID it.”

“Is it Mycroft? Has someone finally managed to hit the wide-load target his backside presents?”

Irene didn’t smile. In the flickering candlelight it was hard to judge her complexion, but Sherlock thought she looked paler than before.

“It’s a homeless woman, early twenties, found in Southbank under the Waterloo Bridge. Lestrade thinks you might know her from your circle of ‘informants’.”

Sherlock twisted hastily in his seat. “Did he say anything else?”

“There was a message left on the body: Sherlock.”

“What message? What did it say?” he asked, feeling a rising tide of excitement and panic mingling in his mind.

“The message is _Sherlock_. Someone carved your name into the flesh of her back.”

 

 

* * *

 

The morgue was cold and silent, a fitting place for the dead to rest. Lestrade pulled back the sheet so Sherlock could see only the face, and nothing of the mutilated torso or back.

“That’s her,” said Sherlock flatly. “Ruby Cavanaugh. She testified before the Select Committee last October about the possibility of Moriarty’s continued survival.”

“Anyone apart from the Select Committee who might know about her involvement?” inquired Lestrade, his hands planted on his hips in a futile gesture of frustration.

“No, not even the rest of my network; she was the only one brave enough to volunteer to testify.”

“What about the other sources mentioned in that report?”

“Unlikely. Whoever did this got her name and face through the Select Committee recordings,” stated Sherlock, looking down impassively at the cold, mottled face of a young woman who had suffered so much in her short life, yet found the courage to stand up in a room full of fat, arrogant politicians and _tell the truth,_ regardless of what the Select Committee wanted to hear.

“Are you saying that someone in the Joint Intelligence Committee is a mole? Someone who has access to our most top-secret records?” hissed Lestrade through gritted teeth, his voice dangerously low. By the way he grimaced as he frowned, Sherlock could tell he was suffering from a severe tension headache, made worse by the cool temperature of the morgue.

“Yes,” he replied flatly. “Anything else you want to know?”

“Dammit, Sherlock!” growled Lestrade, cradling his head in one hand. “Why is it that wherever you go, trouble always follows?”

“Trouble is always there, Lestrade – some people are just too blind to see it.”

“There’s another thing,” continued Lestrade grimly, “someone’s opened her chest.”

He carefully pulled back the sheet further to reveal a long incision running down the middle of Ruby Cavanaugh’s chest.

“They took out her heart…and – and _burned_ it. The pathologists found a small mound of ash inside the chest cavity where the heart should be,”

 Sherlock stared down at Ruby’s lifeless features, committing them to memory. He could feel a boiling sense of determination rising within him. Moriarty’s vicious words echoed tauntingly in his mind: _I’ll burn you, Sherlock_ , _I’m going to burn the_ heart _out of you._

Lestrade was watching him intently as if waiting for an explanation but Sherlock did not respond. The head of Section D had no patience for the truth even when the evidence was staring up at him in the form of a young life so cruelly snuffed. Lestrade would list a thousand possibilities, all of them logical, valid and completely _wrong_. He, like the rest of the world, would rather believe in a fairytale than the grim reality. There would only be one way to end this.

_And I’m going to_ catch _you, Moriarty,_ Sherlock silently vowed, _even if it is the last thing I do._

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, John rose earlier than usual and drank his fill from the metal bucket. The footlocker was still sitting in pride of place on the table, looming over the small room like a holy artefact, but for once John didn’t spend much time contemplating its contents.

He was looking forward to seeing Dr Sigerson again. He wanted to hear more deductions. Would the good doctor be able tell who his family were just from looking at him hard enough? John hoped so; the thoughts of his life before coming to the Underground were starting to mean more to him than before. Perhaps it was because he knew that when the mission was completed he would finally be able to set foot on the surface. He didn’t know how he would go about finding his family, but he had found he wanted to try, and just thinking about the possibility sent shivers of excitement bubbling down his spine. He could face the noise, the light and the colour. He just wanted to see their faces when he finally appeared.

John wasn’t invited to the briefing session this time around, but he was still tasked with accompanying Dr Sigerson to the empty bunker where they would start wiring the bomb. Once Captain Moran, Slightly, and Murray had moved the footlocker into the bunker, John was at last left alone with the genius doctor.

“Did you go back to the surface?” he asked, unable to contain his excitement. John wanted to ask Dr Sigerson what he did on the surface. Perhaps he liked to swim in a pool of water, or kick a ball on grass.

“Of course,” replied Sigerson as he examined the bomb. It was not quite a bomb yet, just a secure, square container which contained the explosive. John wasn’t sure what made a nuclear bomb so special, but he knew that it would be able to blow up more than an ordinary bomb could. From personal experience, John knew fifty kilos of semtex could level a large building, but the other soldiers said a small nuclear bomb could probably level an entire square mile.

“What – what did you do? On the surface, I mean?” asked John eagerly, staring up at Dr Sigerson.

“I went to visit my brother and his wife, and then I had dinner with my girlfriend.”

John wrinkled his nose in disgust and disappointment. It sounded like something that happened in those weird TV shows about “normal” families, where nothing ever really happened.

“Did you go swimming?” he asked, hoping Dr Sigerson would tell him about pools and lakes and oceans.

“No, but I have done in the past.”

“Is it _good?_ Swimming, I mean?”

Dr Sigerson paused in his examination of the bomb to look back at John with his dark eyes.

“Swimming? It’s neutral.”

John didn’t understand what that word meant. He’d never heard it before, but then, he had read only half the Oxford Dictionary.

“It’s not good or bad,” clarified Dr Sigerson as he pulled some more circuit diagrams from his new, shiny briefcase. “It’s just something to do.”

“But everything is either good or bad,” said John, feeling confused. His entire life was clearly split into good and bad things: good things like playing with Murray and when Seb ruffled his hair; bad things like losing Hoot and being hungry. He had never found anything to be “neutral”.

“What about things you don’t have any feelings about?”

“I have feelings about everything,” stated John. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“No,” replied Sigerson flatly. “I don’t feel anything for swimming – or eating or sleeping, for that matter.”

“They’re all good,” said John helpfully. Perhaps Dr Sigerson just needed to think more carefully about the things he did.

“Good and bad are just points of view, John. What one man thinks is good can be very bad to another.”

“That’s not true: freedom is good, tyranny is bad. Everyone would agree with that.”

Dr Sigerson looked like he was about to smile but was trying very hard to stop himself. John didn’t know what was so amusing, but making Dr Sigerson smile was definitely a _good_ thing.

“Tyranny, that’s a big word for a small boy. What do you know about tyranny?”

John thought Dr Sigerson might be laughing at him because he thought John was just an ignorant child. “A tyrant is one who rules without law, looks to his own advantage rather than that of his subjects, and uses extreme and cruel tactics – against his own people as well as others,” recited John proudly. He had learnt that definition off by heart and he knew it sounded suitably impressive, but Dr Sigerson just looked even more amused.

“So, who’s this tyrant you keep talking about?”

“The Queen and Mycroft Holmes – well, more Mycroft Holmes, because the Queen is a little old lady and sometimes confused.”

Dr Sigerson laughed. It was an odd sound coming from such a serious man, but the resonance was warm, rich and very real. “I suppose you’re right; Mycroft Holmes does run the government,” said Dr Sigerson once his laughter had subsided. “Do you know what he looks like?”

“I’ve seen him on TV. He’s weird.”

The answer seemed to please Dr Sigerson, because the man clapped him on the back and John felt a satisfying warmth at the contact. 

“What do you think we should do about this?”

“Kill him,” said John vehemently, “and everyone else like him, with that bomb.”

For a moment he thought Dr Sigerson looked suddenly afraid, but then he realised the man had only stopped smiling.

“Very good.”

“Then once they’re all dead, we let all the colonies be free, and no one will ever have to live in fear ever again!”

“You’d be happy to detonate this bomb?”

The question sounded like a test of John’s resolve. Perhaps Dr Sigerson could only see a short, skinny boy with dirty clothes, but John was determined to prove to the good doctor that he was able to complete this mission; he was the _right_ choice to carry out this attack.

“Yes!” he said fiercely, “I’m honoured to do it. We’re going to _free the world,_ Dr Sigerson, and then everything will be _good_.”

John got the strange feeling that this wasn’t what Dr Sigerson had wanted to hear, but the idea passed as quickly as it had come over him as the doctor turned back to his blueprints and ordered John to bring him a pen.

For the next few hours they worked together: Dr Sigerson modifying his diagrams, and John running to and fro sourcing all the equipment he could find for their masterpiece. By the time Dr Sigerson started to pack away his belongings, nests of wires, circuit boards and other paraphernalia were scattered around the bunker in an organised mess.

“When are you coming back?” asked John when Dr Sigerson was ready to leave. The man looked surprised at the question, but then the warm smile that John had quickly come to love spread across his features.

“Tomorrow.”

“Can you…” John paused, wondering if his impulsive idea would get him into trouble, “…can you bring me a book?” he asked tentatively. “I’ve read all the books I have so many times, I can recite them all.”

The doctor considered the idea for a moment and nodded. “I can do you one better. I’ll need an assistant to help source some more materials from the surface. I’ll ask Captain Moran if you’ll be available tomorrow.”

John stared blankly at Dr Sigerson, not quite able to believe his own ears. He’d never thought that he would be asked to venture up to the surface again. His mind raced with questions.

_What if someone spotted him and asked where he’d come from? If Murray was right, would his face be plastered on wanted posters everywhere? Could he bring his gun? Would that look odd?_

“It’ll be at night, and I’ll provide you with clothes to help you blend in. We shall go over your cover story tomorrow, if I get permission,” assured Dr Sigerson.

John tried to say something, but his voice was lost in a sea of fear and excitement. Dr Sigerson didn’t seem to mind. He stepped forward and clasped John’s shoulder in a brief gesture of approval before walking out the door.

Dr Sigeron’s touch left a warm tingling feeling where his hand had been and John found himself staring into the empty doorway, wishing the brief moment of contact could have lasted longer.

 

* * *

 

 

When Sherlock barged into Lestrade’s office and explained his plan, the head of Section D managed to produce a spectacular jet of coffee from his mouth, enough to rival the fountains in Trafalgar Square. It was only Sherlock’s sharp reflexes that prevented him from being drenched. The cream-coloured venetian blinds covering the windows were ruined, but he knew Lestrade hated the neutral-toned décor of his office anyway. If the seasoned MI5 officer had half a brain, he would repaint his office in the dead of night and pretend that nothing had changed. The unimaginative and spineless members of Section D were unlikely to challenge their boss over something as trivial as the décor.

“You want to what?” demanded Lestrade, still clutching a donut in one hand and his Starbucks coffee mug in the other. Droplets of coffee spewed in a small shower from his lips, dotting the surface of his black, polished desk. It was at times like these that Sherlock wondered if stupidity was inherited, or just inherent to the human race.

“I want you to call off the blanket kill order on the terrorists. I want you to promise me that the special ops team will not shoot to kill every human being in the Underground,” Sherlock reiterated impatiently.

Lestrade’s eyes bulged dangerously, and the donut in his left hand was suddenly reduced to a crumpled, shapeless mass. Sherlock had not yet been officially informed of the special ops mission to raid the Underground and discreetly destroy all evidence that a rebel base had existed, including evidence of the living variety…but it was not exactly a hard deduction to make. The special ops liked to talk profusely within the safety of Thames House, and just from the snippets Sherlock had gleaned, he already had a good idea of what they were planning.

 “Wait – wait,” Lestrade dropped the donut back into the box and pushed himself up out of his chair. “You worked this out? You weren’t supposed to be informed until –”

Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes at the sheer stupidity of Lestrade’s response. “Yes, _obviously,_ ” he sneered, “and I am changing the game plan.”

“You can’t do that!” Lestrade sounded like he was on the verge of either banging his own head on the desk or using Sherlock’s skull as a substitute.

“Listen, John is just a child, he trusts me and is easy to manipulate. There is no reason why we can’t shut down this rebel cell within the next 24 hours without murdering every man, woman and child living down there. Think of all the intelligence we could gather if we actually took them alive!”

“When did he go from being ‘the boy’ to ‘John’?”  demanded Lestrade, sharply

Sherlock glared at him; the man had the annoying habit of being very perceptive in rare moments  when it suited himself and not Sherlock. “Stick to the subject, would you?”

“Okay, even if I’m not going to question your attachment to the boy, let me ask you this: what about Moriarty?”

“Apparently he’s dead and it’s old news,” replied Sherlock with a generous dose of sarcasm.

“Yes, but you don’t think so; isn’t this whole mission about biding your time waiting for Moriarty to appear? So why do you want to shut the cell down so quickly?” asked Lestrade, leaning back in his chair and making himself comfortable again. The seasoned intelligence officer knew exactly when he had the upper hand in a conversation. “You know what I think? I think you’re getting cold feet.”

Sherlock frowned and scrutinised his former boss’s expression. Could it be possible that Lestrade was far more perceptive than Sherlock had given him credit for?

“You can smell a rat from across an ocean, Sherlock,” continued Lestrade, lacing his hands together in front of his stomach. “Even I find the whole situation stinks: not blindfolding you around the base, giving you access to the bomb so quickly without an interrogation when Parliament doesn’t reconvene for another month, leaving you alone with just the kid for a chaperone, letting him come with you tomorrow. It stinks to the high heavens.”

“Then you know why I want to end this without taking out all our potential sources of information.”

“No – I don’t,” Lestrade tilted his head backwards to look straight into Sherlock’s eyes. “You’ve never cared about the large-scale loss of life on missions. You’re not some bleeding heart who thinks of these terrorists as precious human lives with lost potential. So this isn’t about you at all, it’s about that boy.” Lestrade gave him a searching look, and then laid down the law with unwavering certainty. “You’re going to be there to make sure that bomb can’t be detonated. We are going to swoop down and clean everything up so the people of London will never have to know how close they were to a terror cell.”

Sherlock stared back at his former boss, wondering what it would take to make the man listen to him. The stupid, reckless plan of simply unleashing a massive amount of firepower on the terrorist cell without any real intelligence on their operation would cost the lives of MI5 operatives. However, there was more than that at stake. He told himself vehemently that he had promised Mycroft he would deliver John alive, and Sherlock Holmes hated failing missions, even if the missions were for Mycroft. However a small rebellious part of his mind that Sherlock wished he could disown, reminded him that this was not the real reason.

“John is going to detonate the bomb – he _wants_ to detonate the bomb, he thinks it’s an honour! He’s been so brainwashed by these terrorists that he has no idea what is right or wrong. I agree that those men and women down there chose to become criminals, but John didn’t. He never had a choice! How can you execute him for being a terrorist when he had no choice in the matter?” Lestrade appeared to be completely unmoved, but Sherlock knew that under his seemingly ruthless exterior, there was a human being who did understand the moral dilemma.

“Lestrade, we are effectively going in blind. I’ve found out nothing about their network, I’ve only been in one base – I have no idea how many of them are out there. We need to get the information from John!” said Sherlock in frustration. Then he realised something so simple that he had previously overlooked it in his haste to do battle with Lestrade.

“Whose bright idea was it, anyway, to set up this blanket kill order? It wasn’t you, Lestrade, because you’re a spy; you want information as much as I do. So _who_?”

“Who do you think is in charge of this operation?” At the blank look on Sherlock’s face, Lestrade threw up his hands in exasperation. “Mycroft!”

“But…” for a second Sherlock couldn’t quite comprehend the information being presented to him. _Why would his brother insist that Sherlock capture John alive, and yet at the same time order the wholesale slaughter of everyone in the Underground? Didn’t Mycroft realise that Sherlock couldn’t exactly kidnap John before the bomb was due to explode?_ “…he wants me to bring in John alive.”

“I’m not privy to the inner workings of your brother’s mind,” sighed Lestrade, “I just transmit the orders.”

“John,” replied Sherlock, “is apparently important to my brother. I don’t know why yet –” he held up a hand to ward off Lestrade’s protests, “– but Mycroft must have worked something out. _What is he not telling me?”_

“If I were you,” said Lestrade in a deadly quiet voice, “I wouldn’t confront your brother over this; he could completely destroy both our lives with a single nod.  Remember, you and I only operate under his good graces.”

For once in his life, Sherlock seriously considered taking Lestrade’s advice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Production Notes: Lestrade**
> 
>  
> 
> I felt it was not a great leap of the imagination to write Lestrade as a spymaster. If anyone has watched Spooks, I think Harry Pierce and Lestrade share many qualities. Lestrade is a straight-talking, highly pragmatic spy, who worked his way up from being a field agent to the head of Section D. Lestrade in this AU is acutely aware of political influences, as much as he may hate them. He understands that his job depends on Mycroft’s good graces. His work is also not as morally clear as that of a policeman – he has to kill people personally and order the deaths of many others. Lestrade works within a shadowy realm where there are no uniforms, badges or medals. However, underneath it all he does have a conscience and a great sense of loyalty to his country. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Please take the time to leave kudos and/or a review. Authors thrive on feedback! It makes the time put into this project worthwhile**


	6. EUSTON

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who reviewed! Your encouragement means a great deal to me particularly at this difficult time in my life.

 

 

 

 

 

The evening couldn't come soon enough for John. He'd spent the day on cleaning duty sweeping the bunkers with Murray, but his mind was preoccupied by thoughts of the surface world. He hadn't felt so nervous yet excited since his trip to assassinate the Home Secretary.

 

In the dead of night, when everything was still, John would sometimes think of the plump, fair-haired woman and the way his bullet had exploded through her skull. At the time, the fear and shock of actually seeing someone die by his own hand had left John a retching, shivering mess. Five months on he still had nightmares about that day, but they were few and far between. He reassured himself on a regular basis that he had done the right thing. The Home Secretary was an evil tyrant who had made life miserable for millions of people. With her death, they were one step closer to freeing the world. Nobody would actually miss such a terrible person; the people on the surface must be secretly glad she was dead. However, his memory of people screaming, panicking, crying was impossible to erase. John couldn't reconcile their reactions with what Seb had told him:  _killing the Home Secretary was a_ good  _thing._

John hadn't felt  _good_  about it for a long time afterwards, despite being rewarded with a promotion to Sergeant. Sometimes, when he was completely alone with his thoughts, a small voice inside his head would start telling him that what he did was actually  _very, very bad_. He tried not to think too much about that odd voice, telling him things which were clearly stupid. He secretly hoped it would just disappear one day if he ignored it for long enough but he was still waiting for that to happen.

 

When evening finally arrived and the clock in the officers' mess showed that it was almost time for the night patrol to start their shift, John packed away the cleaning equipment and went to wait patiently at the top level of the base for Dr Sigerson to appear. He was looking forward to seeing the doctor, but more importantly he was excited to meet the procurement expert, Erin Watt. John had always found new people fascinating. Constancy was rare with the ever-changing personnel of the military base: soldiers transferred or passed away, and familiar faces were quickly replaced by unfamiliar ones. John had taken this in his stride, and invited the new recruits into his heart as readily as he extended his hand in friendship.

 

The doctor appeared punctually at seven-fifteen flanked by three guards, who carefully searched him for a second time before pulling the blindfold from his eyes. After making sure Dr Sigerson had everything he wanted, the soldiers ambled away.

 

John was a little disappointed to see that the doctor had come alone, but the feeling soon dissipated when Sigerson propped his briefcase on the wide barrier dividing the black metal stairs and pulled out some brand new clothes: a pair of blue shorts and a white t-shirt and matching socks. John couldn't hold in his gasp of excitement as the last items appeared from out of the good doctor's briefcase: a pair of running shoes that John had seen advertised on TV and which he had coveted ever since he first set eyes on them. He couldn't remember ever receiving new clothes before, and such fine ones at that. He was pleased to note that the new clothes had a particular smell: a sharp, crisp, clean smell which made them that much more special.

 

"You should get changed – we need to go over your cover story as soon as possible," said Dr Sigerson.

 

John nodded enthusiastically and started to strip off his shirt and trousers. He was halfway through dressing when he glanced up at the doctor and saw to his surprise that the man was staring intently at his chest.

 

"What happened?" asked Dr Sigerson quietly.

 

John looked down at his chest and saw nothing out of the ordinary. Perhaps it was his belly button that the doctor wanted to know about. It stuck inwards instead of outwards like all the other boys', and John had sometimes worried that it meant something was wrong with him.

 

"I was born with it," said John, poking a finger into the hole. "Is it normal?" he asked, hoping the doctor would assure him that there was nothing to worry about.

 

"I mean those scars."

 

Dr Sigerson's voice had dropped so low that John almost couldn't hear him above the background whistling of wind through the tunnels.

 

John looked down again and saw the lattice-like pattern of pink and white lines running along the edge of his tummy. Most of the marks were on his back, but some wrapped around to the front. All the boys had similar scars, and they would spend time comparing the patterns when there was nothing else to do at night. Perhaps the doctor had never been punished before; he sure looked like a man who would never be lazy or stupid or untidy.

 

"It's just scars from being whipped," explained John. "Everyone has them. I've got more on my back, see?" He twisted around to show Dr Sigerson the pattern on his back. Murray said it looked like someone had tried to play noughts and crosses, but without any noughts.

 

When he turned around, John was suddenly aware that Dr Sigerson no longer looked interested, but extremely angry. He silently berated himself for showing his marks to the doctor – he was clearly wasting the man's time.

 

"Sorry," muttered John as he quickly pulled on the new t-shirt. He savoured the feeling of the soft material against his skin. Never had he imagined any material could feel so heavenly. The shorts were less soft but still a comfortable fit, and the running shoes felt odd and stiff compared to his usual plimsolls.

 

Dr Sigerson looked like he was about to say something, but then closed his mouth very quickly. He turned away for a moment as if deep in thought, and John was relieved to see he looked much happier when he turned back. He patiently explained John's cover story, which appeared to be incredibly simple – nothing like the complex plans John usually had to memorise. When he had successfully repeated everything back twice, the doctor appeared to be satisfied.

 

"That was very good, John," praised the doctor, and John beamed with pride. "I'm sure Captain Moran has already briefed you on the person we are going to meet today."

 

"Erin Watts, procurement manager," repeated John smartly. "She's going to give us the equipment we need."

 

"She might have some questions to ask you," said Dr Sigerson. "She needs to know about locations, transport, power sources. I want you to answer her questions to the best of your ability. Don't worry if you don't know the answer, we can always ask Captain Moran later."

 

John nodded enthusiastically, feeling very important at being able to help out Dr Sigerson and his friend. He wondered what Erin would be like. Perhaps she looked like the female soldiers in Company C – tall and muscular, with short-cropped hair. Or maybe she would be a vision of exotic beauty, like the women he'd seen on TV. Either way, he was looking forward to meeting this new person.

 

* * *

 

Dr Sigerson had to be blindfolded again during the cart ride to the surface. The battered metal container on wheels rattled away down the old railway tracks on a gas engine that spluttered out black fumes every few minutes. John hated these carts; he was always afraid that they might explode and splatter all the occupants against the tunnel walls.

 

By the time they arrived at Westminster station John was feeling distinctly queasy, and by the look on Dr Sigerson's face, he hadn't enjoyed the ride either. Their driver shoved them both unceremoniously out of the cart and clattered away down the tracks, leaving both of them in the semi-darkness of the abandoned Underground station.

 

Dr Sigerson ripped the blindfold from his face and turned to look down at John. "Ready?"

 

"I was born ready!" declared John – a favourite phrase he had learnt from Seb – but underneath his bravado he felt a knot of anxiety building in his stomach.

 

When they emerged from behind the rusted, padlocked gates into the warm night air, John could feel beads of cold sweat prickling across his forehead. He fervently hoped that there would be less people around now that it was dark. The running shoes were chafing his ankles, and he knew he must look out of place even with his brand new clothes. He had a suddenly overwhelming urge to just run back into the Underground.

 

"It's fine," muttered Dr Sigerson. A warm hand pressed itself against John's back and steadied his trembling frame. He fought desperately to control his breathing and the wild gallop of his racing heart.

 

"You're very brave, John." Dr Sigerson had a deep, reassuring voice, but even that was not enough to chase away John's fear. Underground, where everything had been safe and normal, a trip to the surface had seemed like a great adventure. Now that he was just metres away from actually emerging into the brightly-lit, open world above, John didn't feel like a brave soldier anymore.

 

Sigerson curled his arm around John's shoulders and, to John's surprise, pulled him against his side. The doctor's coat was much rougher than John had assumed it would be and it pressed like an irritant against his bare arms, but the sensation was oddly comforting. "You can do this, John," whispered Dr Sigerson. "You can do this."

 

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, John stepped forward out of the shadows and into the strange, glowing world outside.

 

* * *

 

  
Irene was waiting at her usual table in Angelo's with a plate of rapidly-congealing spaghetti. When she looked towards the window she could see reflected in the glass the faces of the other operatives dotted throughout the restaurant behind her. Callum Wood looked terribly nervous, fidgeting with his wine glass and picking at his food, whilst his "date", Jo Portman, leaned casually back in her seat, looking thoroughly bored by his company. Adam, Zaf and Lucas were pretending to have a lad's night out and making a horrendous racket with endless rounds of toasts.

 

The representative of MI6 in this joint operation was none other than Irene's "darling" sister Anthea, sitting alone in the left-hand corner, studiously reading a book whilst absentmindedly tucking into a helping of tiramisu. She had pulled her voluminous hair into a tight bun and put on thick glasses to make herself look like the prim civil servant she was supposed to be. Though she was a renowned spymaster, Anthea had insisted that she return to the field for this particular operation. She had always been the more intelligent of the sisters, and Irene knew Anthea had a myriad of reasons to be here, most of which hadn't yet crossed Irene's mind.

 

The long-serving MI5 agent smiled down at her spaghetti and wondered anew what their parents would say if they ever found out that both their beloved daughters were  _spies_.

 

When she looked back to the window, Irene focussed this time on the glistening tarmac and illuminated shop-fronts of the street outside. She soon noted the joined shadow of two people gliding across the pavement.

 

Right on time – unusual for Sherlock – the ex-spy came strolling around the corner into her line of sight with a small child attached to his arm. It took Irene several seconds to understand that the shaking bag of bones hanging off Sherlock's arm was none other than John Watson, the boy who had assassinated the Home Secretary. If any passers-by had looked into the window at Angelo's, they would have seen her undisguised expression of astonishment. Seeing his pathetic figure, she found it almost impossible to accept that this _child_  could be a cold-hearted killer and terrorist. Yet, knowing that this was indeed the case, Irene was still surprised by a rising tide of anger at the thought. She knew the terrorists had no moral scruples, yet she couldn't help but feel utter disgust at the way they exploited and manipulated children into doing their dirty deeds.

 

The duo paused by the door, and she saw the boy peering through the glass before clutching at Sherlock's coat, clearly reluctant to go inside. Irene waited to see if her lover had actually taken her advice.

 

 _Be patient,_ she had advised Sherlock,  _make sure to take your time. Children are like wild animals; approach with caution and bring food._  He'd seemed too preoccupied with working out where the location of the rebel base would be to listen to her, but there was always a chance.

 

The boy and Sherlock appeared to be engaged in a quiet discussion. To Irene's delight and – she was ashamed to admit – amazement, Sherlock seemed to be listening attentively to the child. Sherlock's hand resting on the boy's shoulder and the child's tight grip on his coat told her that the boy had really become as attached to Sherlock as the man had insisted to Irene.

 

After a few minutes of quiet negotiation, the ex-spy opened the door and walked through, followed closely by the much calmer child. Angelo, who had been briefed, prepped and paid in advance for all their meals, rushed out to greet them. Out of the corner of her eye, Irene could see her sister angling the hidden camera, intent on capturing the boy's reactions.

 

At first the child shrank away from Angelo. He appeared to be in great distress. Irene half-expected the pitiable little figure to just bolt for the door, but Sherlock wrapped both his arms around the boy's shoulders, and John seemed to relax into the embrace. Within seconds, Sherlock had manoeuvred both of them over to Irene's table.

 

"Sit down, John," intoned Sherlock, pointing at the seat nearest to the window. The boy, to his credit, looked frightened at the prospect of being boxed in. His eyes darted around the room, automatically noting any possible escape exits like a seasoned special operative. "Please, John," said Sherlock, refusing to sit down until John did.

 

The boy climbed onto the window seat and turned around on all fours like a dog until he was facing the rest of the room. Sherlock quickly sat down next to him, so that the boy was now sandwiched between the two of them, and in full view of the entire restaurant.

 

"Hello, John," Irene said, putting on her kindest smile. The welcome seemed to work, because the boy smiled back at her hesitantly, some of his fear and hostility melted away. "I'm Erin, Dr Sigerson's friend."

 

"What's that?" asked the boy, pointing at her food in obvious fascination, clearly forgetting that he was effectively trapped between a strange woman and an expert bomb maker.

 

"It's spaghetti, John," explained Sherlock patiently. "Italian food."

 

Irene wondered if a child who had spent his entire life underground would even know what Italy was, but to her surprise the boy said in an over-exaggerated Italian accent, "Domino, the best Bolognese sauce! Just like Mama used to make."

 

"He watches a lot of TV," explained Sherlock as Angelo returned with a child's meal for John.

 

The boy stared at the plate for a long moment, completely forgetting about his previous interest in Irene's food. After inspecting the plate from every angle, he grabbed a handful of spaghetti and tried to stuff it into his mouth. By some miracle the strands went in without any mess and he happily licked all his fingers clean before taking another handful. It took less than five minutes for him to devour the whole plate and lick the plate clean.

 

"That was impressive," said Irene. There was no need to fake her surprise.

 

"I can eat even faster!" replied John enthusiastically, obviously trying to impress.

 

"I'm sure you can."

 

"I can also make food come out of my nose," continued John with great pride.

 

"Perhaps we should leave that to another time," suggested Irene, fully intent on being able to stomach the rest of her meal.

 

"John's also very good at other things," said Sherlock encouragingly. The boy positively beamed with joy at the praise and latched onto Sherlock's arm with both his scrawny hands. Sherlock reciprocated the gesture by sliding his arm around John's shoulders and pulling the boy into his side for an awkward hug. The child squealed in delight and burrowed himself further into the embrace.

 

When her eyes met Sherlock's over the boy's head, Irene could see a hint of confusion but also something even less familiar: a glint of warmth that seemed to melt away his icy façade. Her first reaction was one of joy. Sherlock cultivated a barrier of barbed insults and emotional detachment to protect his heart. It had taken her years to finally break through the walls and discover the damaged person hiding inside. The road to healing – for both of them – had been long and hard, but they had struggled through somehow. Now she was buoyed by the sight of Sherlock and the boy together, delighting in the close bond that had sprung up between them in such a short time.

 

However, as she watched Sherlock ruffle the boy's hair and smile so deeply that the corners of his eyes became a mass of crinkles, her heart ached for them both. There would be no happily-ever-after for this child. He would die at the hands of the Special Ops team who had already been lined up to clear the Underground. They had been secretly tasked to leave no survivors; the public was to never know they had been living just metres above a huge terrorist network. Sherlock knew of this plan, but he had voiced his opposition from the start, and the ex-spy seemed illogically certain that he would be able to prevent the executions from taking place. Now that she had seen Sherlock and John together, she understood just what had motivated him to argue with Lestrade over their orders.

 

"I'm good at shooting!" boasted John, looking up at her from his nearly horizontal position on Sherlock's lap. Anthea must be silently cursing Sherlock right now for moving her target out of camera shot.

 

"Really, and what have you shot?" asked Irene.

 

"Rats," said John, "and drones." The boy made a hand gesture shaped like a gun and aimed it at his reflection in the window.

 

"That sounds very exciting."

 

John smiled for a moment before the expression on his face suddenly became sombre. "I've shot people too," he said, almost to himself. "They always bleed."

 

"I imagine they would."

 

"Have you ever shot someone?" asked John, looking back at her with eyes that seemed at once old beyond his years and yet filled with innocence. The reflection of his small, pallid face floated like an apparition on the windowpanes amidst the bright lights of the restaurant.

 

"Yes." Irene found it disturbingly easy to tell the truth whilst the child's pale blue eyes held her in their spellbinding gaze.

 

"Did it feel  _good?_ "

 

She was taken aback by the question, and for a moment she wondered what the child might mean by the word "good".

 

"Yes," Irene replied quietly, "and then it felt very, very bad."

 

The child looked surprised and then inexplicably pleased, as if the dual answer Irene had given was exactly what he had been waiting to hear.

 

"I feel that way too," he whispered solemnly. To Irene's great interest, the child reached out a pale hand towards her. His touch was icy cold and as light as a feather. He glanced furtively at her for a brief moment before allowing the full weight of his hand to rest on hers.

 

Irene fought the desire to clasp those fragile little fingers and warm them with her palms – it would not be good for either of them if she became too attached. However, her good intentions were useless against the strange, silent charisma of this child. A small voice inside her mind, often smothered by ruthless necessity, cried out to her. This child was  _not_  a terrorist, but a poor lost soul abandoned by the world and left at the mercy of psychopathic murders. He didn't deserve to die alone and afraid in those dark, forbidding tunnels.

 

"We should get going," said Sherlock, interrupting Irene's conflicting thoughts. He looked at his watch, which was the designated signal for the team to move on to the next part of the operation. "Hyde Park would be lovely for an after-dinner walk."

 

"Of course," said Irene, quickly suffocating the voice of conscience inside her.

 

Angelo greeted them at the door and the boy –  _John_  – waved goodbye with a cheerful familiarity despite only having met the man less than an hour ago. Angelo, likewise, seemed charmed by John and presented him with a lollipop on his way out. The child didn't know what to do with it at first, until Sherlock unwrapped the sweet for him and explained how to eat a lollipop in clinical detail.

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
They took a cab to the park, which was inconspicuously tailed by a British Gas van containing Lestrade and the rest of the surveillance team. John, still utterly fascinated by London, spent the entire journey pressed up against the window, drinking in the night scenery.

 

Hyde Park was dark and peaceful at this time of night, its paths softly lit by the mellow glow of ornamental street lamps. The cool summer breeze was gentle and pleasant. When Irene stepped out of the cab, she could detect the faint scent of roses. It was difficult to imagine a life without having experienced something as simple as the wind in one's face or the sweet smell of flowers on a warm July night.

 

John clambered energetically out of the cab, sucking on his lollipop and taking in the sight of the park with wide eyes.

 

"Grass!" he screamed suddenly, and dashed towards the nearest illuminated patch of lawn.

 

"He's never seen grass before," explained Sherlock solemnly. "Well, not in real life anyway."

 

"How did he survive down there?"

 

"He's very malnourished; you can tell by the bowing of his legs that he's got rickets, but he doesn't realise he has a problem. Apparently all the other boys look like that too."

 

"There are  _others?_ " Irene couldn't contain her shock.

 

"There were several, actually – enough to form an entire platoon – but some have died of illness, and now there are only four boys left, John being one of them."

 

"Where did they come from?"

 

"John was abandoned as an infant in the old King's Cross Station, or so his captain told me," replied Sherlock, sounding completely detached – but Irene could tell from the tension in his jaw that he was anything but emotionally removed from the situation. "The other boys ran away from abusive homes. I suppose we should be grateful the terrorists didn't just kill them when they stumbled upon the base."

 

"Grateful? What kind of a life do these children have?"

 

"Not a good one, but they are alive nevertheless. John's parents evidently never intended for him to be found, if they took the time to break into an abandoned Underground station to dump their baby."

 

Irene stared at the boy rolling on the grass like an over-excited puppy. She tried to imagine what state of mind a mother had to be in to abandon her own child somewhere she believedno-one would ever find him. Perhaps it  _was_  a miracle that John was alive to enjoy this moment, but by rescuing him the terrorists had merely delayed his demise and sentenced him to a life of depravation and violence.

 

"John!" called Sherlock, striding away from Irene. The boy jumped up, covered from head to toe in bits of loose grass and clumps of dirt. "I need you to come and tell Irene about the transportation arrangements for the materials we're going to get."

 

The boy ran back to them like an eager puppy.

 

"I think we can fit everything into one of those… _cabs_ ," he said earnestly. "If we all sit in a row, the rest of the space can hold all the wires and electronics we'll need. The remote control devices shouldn't take up much room. I can hold the boxes if you want."

 

"Perhaps, but how will you transport the materials to the base?" asked Irene.

 

"Oh, that's simple. We have carts that use the old railway tracks. Company B are responsible for that."

 

"How are big are they?"

 

"Big enough to hold five people, and they go pretty damn fast, too. Once we get all the components to the base, Dr Sigerson and I will connect everything up. If we need to test the circuits, we can plug the completed circuit into the generator back at base."

 

"What kind of fuel does the generator run on?" asked Irene. "How will you know if the reading you get from testing the circuit will be accurate?"

 

John gave her a quizzical look. "The generator is part of the electricity grid," he explained as if it was completely obvious, "it doesn't need any fuel."

 

Sherlock looked almost as confused as Irene felt.

 

"The generator doesn't actually generate any electricity," said John, sounding a little exasperated. "The soldiers just call it that because they don't know the first thing about electrics. It's actually just a giant battery that stores electricity for Company C."

 

"So how do you make electricity, then?"

 

"Oh, there's an entire power plant down in the Underground," answered John with a winning smile. "Seb told me that the LRA built it a long time ago from what was left over after the Second World War."

 

Irene tried to contain her surprise at this revelation. The rebels had a fully-functioning power station hidden underground. If they had access to an almost unlimited amount of electricity, who knows what kind of defences they would be able to erect if they were attacked. The LRA might even have enough power to re-electrify the railway tracks at a moment's notice and electrocute the entire special ops team in one go.

 

"And what does the electricity get used for?" Irene tried to make the question sound like passing curiosity.

 

"Lights, non-portable jammers, cameras, electric fields to stop people from attacking our base…computers, but I've never touched one," replied John nonchalantly.

 

"The jammers won't affect the remote-controlled devices, will they?"

 

"Oh no, the jammers only work on drones. It makes them think there's no one there if they get too close to the base. We carry portable jammers everywhere, in case we meet a drone in the tunnels. Most of the time they just patrol close to the old Green Park station."

 

"Does our equipment have to go anywhere near that station in order to get to your base?" asked Irene, adding a hint of concern to her tone. John seemed to be very sensitive to the subtle changes in people's voices and expressions, and he picked up on her cue instantly.

 

"Don't worry," he replied with a reassuring smile, "Company C base isn't that close to Green Park. It's in an old station, too. It was called…" he paused for a moment, "E-U-S-T-O-N".

 

At that moment, Irene wasn't sure how she managed to control her surprise at being handed the one piece of information the entire mission hinged on. As she took time to emotionally process her thoughts, she expected to feel a sense of elation, but there was only an unspeakable sadness welling up inside her.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Production Notes:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _One of the main things I wanted to explore is the idea of following orders despite your own conscience. John knows inherently that killing was wrong, but he has been conditioned to believe something completely different. He's too young to fully understand just how twisted his situation is and the confusion will just keep building._
> 
>  
> 
> _John presents a moral dilemma for Irene and Lestrade. Certainly he is a terrorist, a murderer and highly dangerous but he is also a child. Can you really commit a crime when you have never been taught that your actions are wrong? However in the heat of combat would you hesitate to shoot a child who would otherwise kill you, your entire squad, and most of the population of London? How would you weigh up one life for another?_
> 
>  
> 
> _The dilemma really is whether John can be allowed to return to the underground. If they remove him now, Sherlock will not be able to keep his cover, and he will not be able carry on with neutralising the bomb. If they allow John to return to the tunnels, he will most likely to be killed once the special ops move in._
> 
>  
> 
> **AN**
> 
>  
> 
> I decided to change the actor I use for Kid!John because Asa Butterfield's image is just more ubiquitous. It was somewhat of a challenge to change his hair colour - even now "John" does not look convincingly blonde. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Once again please take the time to leave Kudos or a comment. Thank you very much**


	7. However Improbable

 

  
 

 

* * *

Irene stared numbly out of her office window overlooking the River Thames. The mission had been an unprecedented success. Not only had John revealed the location of the bomb and several rebel bases, the boy had also unwittingly exposed the makeshift defences that could be erected in case of an invasion. Special ops were currently planning counter-strategies based on the intelligence Irene had gathered tonight.

However, instead of triumph or relief, Irene felt only a gnawing sense of guilt: a dirty feeling that clung to her mind like cobwebs. For nearly a decade she had been a ruthless spy, untouched by the bitterness and pain she left in her wake. The countless lives destroyed and the immeasurable damage done could always be justified in the name of Queen and country. There was no logical reason why she would feel anything in the aftermath of this mission, but John's pale face haunted her vision. Every time she closed her eyes, Irene could see the boy's innocent smile as he'd waved goodbye to her. She would never see him alive again. The muted voice of her conscience screamed how  _wrong_ this was, but she felt detached from the thoughts, as if she was merely watching someone else banging against a frosted window…and that upset her almost as much as the guilt.

"You did well tonight," said Lestrade through the open door. He looked weary but triumphant, like a majestic old warship returning to harbour after years at sea. "We've got enough information to shut this whole thing down tomorrow."

"Do you ever wonder," asked Irene pensively, looking out of the window rather than at her boss, "whether we are doing the right thing?"

Although, Lestrade's expression did not change she could see that her question had affected him. A decent, honest man, Lestrade was plague by his conscience even more than Irene and yet his dedication to the Service remained unwavering. He would continue to do all that was necessary to defend the realm even if it meant sacrificing his soul to be chipped away piece by piece until there would be nothing left.

"You think we should let this scenario play out?" he asked quietly. "Sherlock was badgering me for the same thing. Hethinks that Moriarty will show up if we wait long enough, what's your reason?"

"Nothing." Irene smiled bitterly at her reflection in the window. "You misunderstood my question…but it doesn't matter. I'm going home now; is there anything you want to update me on before I leave?"

Lestrade gave her a searching look before stuffing a hand in his pocket and pulling out a USB stick. "Joint Intelligence Committee report on potential sources of the nuclear material inside that dirty bomb just came in five minutes ago – basically they found zilch _._ The permanent secretary even told me it was  _impossible_  that the rebels could have a dirty bomb. _"_

"All the intelligence sources we have turn up nothing, not even a hint of a black market deal or a weapons facility acting unusual?" asked Irene, feeling a sense of dread washing over her. Instincts honed by years in the field immediately warned her that something was very wrong. Somewhere, they had missed something vital.

"No, but that doesn't mean anything. We can't call off the mission because of the risk that the rebels might not have a dirty bomb…."

Irene felt a surge of adrenaline rushing through her body. Even if her logical mind had yet to reach a decision, the rest of her body evidently trusted her instincts.  _This could not be right._ The special unit tasked with keeping track of nuclear material was highly proficient at their job: tracking down unaccounted sources of nuclear material. If they were  _convinced_ that the rebels did not have a nuclear bomb – there was no reason for anyone else to disagree.

"But there's no  _evidence_ to suggest they have one!" exclaimed Irene. "There's no evidence at all. If no sources of enriched uranium are missing, then whatever is in that black box Sherlock described isn't nuclear material."

"Hold on," replied Lestrade, "that box is so small it couldn't contain anything other than uranium, or it would be useless as a bomb!"

Irene spun around and grabbed her boss by the lapels. Lestrade did not look too stunned at being manhandled, Section D was filled with highly strung operatives.

"Listen to me!" she almost shouted, "we are being  _played_. This is a trap!"

At those words Lestrade's eyes widened with fear and amazement. His previously calm but exasperated expression evaporated. Irene could almost see the wheels turning in his head and the idea taking hold inside his mind, as it had done in hers.

"Oh God," he gasped, going slightly limp against her grip, "you can't be serious."

"Lestrade, if it's impossible that the rebels have got a dirty bomb, then they  _don't have a dirty bomb_. Just think about how easy this mission has been from the beginning. It's almost as if the rebels  _wanted_  to co-operate."

Irene let go of her boss's suit and he took a moment to compose himself.

"Damn it, Irene!" he hissed, staring past her out of the window at the sparkling lights of London. "I swear sometimes you are worse than Sherlock."

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sally Donovan and Anderson were looking about as pleased to be sitting in the conference room at one a.m. as any self-respecting human being with a life would.

"Seriously, what did the freak do _this_  time?" asked Sally wearily. She'd been stuck in the surveillance van with Lestrade all evening, and she looked as if no amount of caffeine in the world would be able to keep her awake for a moment longer.

"I told you we couldn't work with him on this," Anderson concurred. "I assume  _he's_ why you dragged us in here when we are supposed to be in bed?"

"It's not about Sherlock," said Irene flatly. Both her subordinates glared silently at her, no doubt wanting to make some remark about a conflict of interest. "It's about the JIC report."

Lestrade explained their brief conversation and his own thoughts and reasoning in calm, neutral tones, but it didn't take a spy to realise his mind was in turmoil.

"So you're saying, just because those idiots across the river couldn't come up with a plausible scenario about how the rebels got themselves a dirty bomb, we've all been duped?" asked Anderson derisively. "I'm sorry, but I'd rather believe our sources."

"We don't  _have_  sources, Anderson," bit out Irene, feeling her patience with the man slipping. "The only information we have about this dirty bomb came from Mycroft Holmes."

"Are you saying Mycroft Holmes is…lying to us?" asked Sally cautiously.

"No, of course not," snapped Lestrade, massaging his temples to ease the tension headache he was no doubt developing.

"But the point remains we have anonymous intelligence that we cannot verify against the very real fact that, even with all the resources of the JIC, no one has been able to find the slightest hint of evidence that the rebels actually have a dirty bomb," continued Irene. "We are hinging our entire operation on information we cannot verify or assess. We should pull back and take some more time to actually gather real intelligence on this rebel cell before simply taking them out. Right now we are effectively going in blind – the special ops assault plan makes far too many assumptions, which will cost lives."

"We need to speak to Mycroft," concluded Lestrade, picking up the phone on the desk.

"No," said Irene suddenly. She wasn't sure what made her hesitant: perhaps it was residual resentment against the man who had destroyed her previous life and almost caused her death, or perhaps her subconscious had picked up on something she hadn't yet logically processed. "You need to call off the special ops,  _now_."

"You do realise that Sherlock  _could_ be assembling a nuclear bomb below our feet," objected Anderson.

"If I needed someone to state the obvious, Anderson, you would actually be useful," snapped Irene. She turned back to Lestrade. "You have to do it – the lives of three hundred men are at stake."

"But we've got information on what the terrorist defences are like. Does it matter whether they have a nuclear bomb or not, we still need to take them out," protested Sally.

Lestrade glared up at her from his semi-bent position at the head of the table. " _Christ_ , Sally, if there isn't a nuclear bomb this whole set up is a terrorist trap and everything the boy's fed us would be a  _lie_."

"You  _need_ to call them off," insisted Irene vehemently.

Lestrade looked terribly torn for a moment; they had been working around the clock on this mission, and Lestrade had poured everything he had into making sure it would be a success. However, when he eventually picked up the phone, neither Sally nor Anderson protested.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock sat in the empty bunker with John perched on his lap. The boy had wormed his way into Sherlock's private space even faster than Irene Adler had managed to. Within a few hours, John had progressed from just wanting to hold his hand to sitting on top of him. For some strange reason, Sherlock couldn't bring himself to push the bony child off his legs. The logical part of his brain justified his inaction by telling him it would help to gain the boy's trust, but Sherlock knew he'd had John's trust – and even love – long before today. The completely illogical part of his brain treacherously suggested that he might be  _attached_  to the boy…which was  _impossible_.

By all accounts the child was a dangerous terrorist, and the main target of Sherlock's mission. Once he delivered the boy to Mycroft, John would be interrogated and sent either to prison or to a mental institution, depending on how psychologically damaged he was. Even if Sherlock wanted to "rescue" John, he would never be able to fool Mycroft long enough to get either of them to safety – not that he would ever do something so sentimental and idiotic.

"I like Irene," said John abruptly as he cut the copper wires down to size. "Do you think she'd like to visit the base sometime?"

"No, she doesn't like small spaces," Sherlock replied, and went back to studying the bomb schematics.

"So…I won't get to see her again?" John sounded unusually disappointed, considering he had only spent a matter of hours with Irene.

"No," Sherlock said flatly – and then realised that upsetting John was not going to be conducive to a successful evening of work. "Unless you go up to the surface again to see her."

John remained uncharacteristically quiet, but at least the look of devastation had disappeared. Twenty minutes of efficient silence later, John suddenly started talking again.

"Am I going to see  _you_  again – after all this is over?" he asked, staring solemnly at Sherlock.

For some illogical reason, Sherlock found it almost impossible to look back into John's wide, blue eyes. "Unlikely," muttered Sherlock. He was suddenly overcome with the urge to push the boy away as far as possible.

"But, I'll be able to come to the surface any time I want by then," said John, sounding almost desperate. "I can come and visit you, right?"

The feeling of claustrophobia was not unknown to him, but usually Sherlock was only overcome with the sensation in very tight spaces. Somehow, this child had managed to trigger the same reaction just by sitting on his lap. He reached out a hand and shoved John off his knee.

"We need to get this done," Sherlock ordered sharply. "Stop wasting time asking stupid questions."

He turned away so that he wouldn't have to see John's expression.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Three hours later, with the preliminary wiring in place, Sherlock had been allowed to return above ground under strict instructions to return early tomorrow evening. As he walked out under the dark night sky, Sherlock wanted to breathe a sigh of relief, but he knew he didn't have time for such emotion – it was already ten past four in the morning. The JIC report would have been released more than an hour ago; plenty of time for everyone to have digested its contents. He needed to find Irene immediately, and by a quick process of deduction, he decided to place his bet on MI5 headquarters. It took him just under nineteen minutes to walk back to Thames House, but by the time he reached the front door the sky had already begun to lighten, and a sliver of red could be seen on the horizon.

When Sherlock stepped out of the lift, he saw Irene standing in Section D's open-plan main office, surrounded by several men who definitely didn't work for the counter-terrorism department. A sharp, piercing moment of shock was quickly followed by cool, relentless logic. Even as Irene turned to greet him, Sherlock had already formulated an alternative plan.

"Sherlock!"

"Heard the news yet?" asked one of the burly men. "Little Miss Muffet here has just cancelled our entire special op." The officer sounded more amused than angry, and Irene gave him a very sarcastic smile.

"Sherlock, I need to talk to you in private."

The other two special ops men wolf-whistled, but were quickly silenced by another glare from Irene.

" _Now_."

In the confines of Irene's office, Sherlock could tell immediately that she was both relieved and apprehensive – an intriguing mix of emotions for a woman who usually held such mastery over common sentiment. However, he could also see that she hadn't realised just how dangerous her position had become. The men outside had done a brilliant job of convincing her they really were a few stragglers from the special ops team who wanted nothing more than to chat.

He had intended to whisk her away to safety before the men could arrive, but apparently fate and Mycroft had conspired to thwart him. There was nothing he could do now but "roll with the punches", as Irene was fond of saying.

"The JIC report on nuclear materials came back negative," she said, and then stared at Sherlock as if expecting him to look surprised. He raised one appraising eyebrow and settled himself in the comfortable chair behind her desk. In truth, he had known what the report would say even before the JIC had started their investigation. Keeping tabs on nuclear materials was a hobby of his, and he trusted the various sources he had cultivated over the years much more than anything a group of desk-bound bureaucrats could discover.

"You're not surprised?" Irene scrutinised him for a moment from across her polished black desk. "You  _knew_  they would find nothing….  _How?_ "

"I have my sources," replied Sherlock cryptically. Now was not the right time to start confessing to all the secrets he had taken with him after leaving MI5.

"But then, you must know that the whole thing is a set-up!" cried Irene. "Why didn't you say something before? If I hadn't – Jesus, Sherlock!" She stopped short of slamming her palms in front of him, but only because she didn't want to damage her own desk.

"I knew you'd figure it out in time, and even if you didn't, I planned to be back in time to stop the operation anyway."

She glared at him as if it was all somehow his fault. "You never learnt the meaning of the expression  _teamwork,_  did you?"

"I work  _alone_ , I always have. Alone is what I want. Alone protects me."

"Well, on the bright side, at least the rebels don't actually have a nuclear bomb," said Irene, pretending that she hadn't heard the last sentence.

"That's a bit optimistic of you," replied Sherlock, placing his hands together under his chin and staring up at the dove grey ceiling. He took the risk of a quick sideways glance out of her office at the men standing outside. They were still talking to each other jovially and sipping hot beverages from mugs. However, they had positioned themselves casually in a line, such that all of them were able to keep an eye on Sherlock and Irene through the glass walls of her office without really looking.

Outside the sun was beginning to rise, turning the sky into a mixture of dazzling colours and bathing the iconic skyline of London in golden rays.

"Well, if they haven't got any nuclear material, how can they have a bomb?"

Sherlock took a deep breath and closed his eyes, retrieving the threads of his previous analysis from their storage space in his "mind palace".

" _Think_ ," he said with a wicked smile. "It's the new sexy." The attempt at humour only served to frustrate Irene. "There is a black box, too small to carry conventional explosives, and yet it needs to be wired so that it is at the epicentre of a bomb."

"Yes, thank you for the recap," replied Irene sarcastically

"The rebels are planning to set off this device under the Houses of Parliament. They have prepared the logistical side of things down to the minutest detail. They have obtained building plans, schedules for building works, timetables of maintenance staff –  _everything_. They're awfully set on making sure that little black box makes it to the basement of the Houses of Parliament. If the box is not a bomb, but requires a surge of electric current just like a bomb, what do you think it could be?"

Irene's eyes darted wildly. "I don't know – "

" _Think!_ " he commanded urgently, without changing his expression.

"Why?"

"What device can fit into a shoe box and needs an electric trigger to go off?"

"…An electromagnetic pulser," she whispered as the revelation dawned. "We've been looking at the wrong things all along – they're going to set it off under the Houses of Parliament when the House is in session…but the electric systems have built-in defences…."

"Yes," said Sherlock quietly, "but pacemakers don't."

He knew immediately the moment all the pieces fell into place. Irene's face contorted into a look of shock, fear and anger. " _Mycroft!_  They're going to kill Mycroft! Someone leaked information about his pacemaker. We have to warn him…."

"No need," said Sherlock flatly. "Those men outside, they're here to grab you – so I suggest you  _duck_."

Without waiting for her to reply, Sherlock slipped his hands under Irene's desk and pulled out the gun she kept in the hidden compartment.

_This was going to be interesting_ _._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Production Notes: On pacemakers and arrhythmias**
> 
>  
> 
> _Remember way back in Chapter 4 when Mycroft has an appointment with a cardiologist? I really enjoyed building this little detail early on in the story. I actually gave Mycroft Holmes a real heart condition – although in the end the actual condition didn't come into play in this story because it was complex to explain. If anyone has medical knowledge I am sure they can spot the glaring flaw in Sherlock's deduction of the rebel plans._
> 
>  
> 
> **On Intelligence**
> 
>  
> 
> _The three main intelligence gathering bodies in the UK are GCHQ (who are the people that tap communications/hack computers), MI6 (the Secret Intelligence Service), and MI5 (the Security Service). MI6 and MI5 are not directly comparable to the CIA and FBI. MI5 are predominantly involved in protecting the UK but they also do a great deal of counter terrorism work abroad as well. MI6 also gathers intelligence within UK borders but predominantly works abroad._
> 
>  
> 
> _In this story both MI5 and MI6 are militarised – in real life the intelligence officers are private citizens with no powers of arrest, no official weapons licenses and they have to gain a court ruling if they want to survey so much as a chip shop. MI6/MI5 do not keep a squad of special forces trained killers on their payroll. Usually they call in the SAS or SCO-19 (the armed branch of the Metropolitan police). I felt that in this dystopia MI5/MI6 would have much more power and their own private armies to boot. They are essential in subjugating the Empire and maintaining British rule_


	8. Brilliant

****

* * *

The first shot shattered the glass wall directly behind Irene. She ducked, rolled sideways to the cabinet where she kept her back-up weapon, and pulled it out swiftly. When she looked up at the carnage outside, she could see that one of the three men had been shot: a dark pool of blood was seeping out from underneath his prone body. The other two had taken cover behind the desks of the junior case officers.

Before Irene could line up her weapon to fire, the alarms started blaring. She knew immediately that within five seconds the power to the entire floor would be cut, and within ten seconds the reinforced steel shutters would descend on the office, cutting off any chance of their escape from Mycroft's agents. The lock-down protocols were in place to restrict the movement of any hostiles that had successfully entered the building. Unfortunately that came at a cost to the agents who ended up getting trapped as well. They had a tiny window of opportunity to get out of the main office before it was entirely locked down. Irene had no desire for either of them to be interrogated in the basement of MI6 headquarters on the suspicion of passing information about Mycroft's pacemaker to the LRA, but if they were to have any chance of escape, they would have to work together.

Years of operating as partners in the field had led Sherlock and Irene to develop their own sign language. Quick, silent and almost impossible to interpret by outsiders, it was the key to many of their joint successes. Right now it was about to save their lives one more time.

Sherlock caught Irene's signal immediately and scrambled out from under her desk. The two men still left alive had not started firing at them, though they had weapons. They must have been ordered not to harm Sherlock.

"I'm going first," he indicated with his hands, and Irene nodded. They sprang out one after the other, running for the door as the lights suddenly died, leaving the entire floor to be illuminated by the dazzling rays of the rising sun. Under the glow of dawn the office had become a confused, shifting mass of dark shadows and sharp, blinding light.

Sherlock was almost at the door when one of the men leapt out from behind a computer terminal and grabbed him by the collar. A stab of fear shot through Irene's heart, but before she could react, a pair of strong hands closed themselves around her neck.

Survival instinct took over; a swift kick to the assailant's left knee was rewarded with an agonised cry as his kneecap fractured. The hands around her neck loosened but did not let go. Throwing all her weight forward, Irene plunged head-first towards the ground, taking her opponent with her as she tumbled. At the last moment before her knees hit the ground, she ducked her head, pulled at the hands around her neck, and used the man's own momentum to throw him over her shoulder in one smooth movement.

There was a resounding thud as one hundred fifty pounds of solid muscle and bone collided with the floor. Wasting no time to check whether the fall had done any damage, Irene dashed for the glass double doors separating Section D's main office from the rest of the floor. The grinding of cogs could be heard clearly above the grunts of Sherlock's ongoing melee with his opponent. With one push, both doors swung open just as the metal shutter started to descend.

In a matter of seconds, Sherlock quickly dispatched the second man with a well-aimed kick to his private parts and a heavy laptop to the head. He had the audacity to grin at her as they sped through the doors, past the empty reception area, and down the fire escape.

"Just like old times," he said breathlessly and flashed another toothy smile, his grey eyes dancing with exhilaration. Sherlock looked truly  _alive,_ a rare occurrence since his dishonourable discharge from the Service.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Going back to 221B Baker Street wasn't exactly the most imaginative or sensible of plans. Mycroft's men should have staked out the place well in advance, but it appeared that Sherlock had once again accurately predicted his older brother's reasoning. There were no discreetly-parked black cars or suspicious-looking people in smart suits lurking on the street. In fact, the entire road was completely deserted, except for the bright gathering of birds on top of the street lamps.

"Mycroft doesn't believe either of us would be so stupid as to come back here immediately," said Sherlock has he opened the front door. "He thinks security protocol is so ingrained in our behaviour that we'll go to ground and assume new identities."

"How long do you think we can evade your brother?" asked Irene as they stepped into Sherlock's cold, dark flat.

All thoughts of Mycroft's sudden urge to put her behind bars were chased away by the sight of Sherlock's kitchen. The table was littered with his private biology lab, and its surface was stained a multitude of colours by the chemicals that had been spilled over the years. The washing-up had piled up in the sink, giving off an unholy stench that could not possibly have come from mere rotting food. A row of dirty knives were hanging by wires above the sink, and empty plastic containers that still held remnants of dissected animals sat nonchalantly on the worktops. The only thing that actually appeared to be clean in the small kitchenette was Sherlock's scientific equipment.

The living room was not much better. The sofa and walls were riddled with bullet holes, which on closer study appeared to form several distorted smiley faces – why Mrs Hudson allowed Sherlock to get away with such behaviour was beyond comprehension. In comparison, the jackknife sticking out of the mantelpiece, skewering a stack of correspondence (consisting mainly of letters from her), seemed positively mundane. The bookshelves were dust-dimmed in some patches but polished in others, where they had been inadvertently cleaned by frequent use. In the upper left corner of the room above the books, a large black spider sat in the middle of a giant cobweb, looking disturbingly well-fed.

Irene wrinkled her nose and settled herself on the sofa, but had to immediately get up again when she realised she had sat down on a jar of tiny pickled hearts.

"I forgot how crazy your flat was," she said wearily. "You must have made a great effort to tidy up when I came to see you last time. You knew I was coming, didn't you?"

"Of course, Mrs Hudson helped me tidy up," confirmed Sherlock. "Tea?" He held up a kettle that appeared to be caked with spots of blood.

"Your brother is trying to arrest me and you're offering me tea?" grimaced Irene, wondering – not for the first time – if it wouldn't be a good idea to get Sherlock some professional help once this debacle was over.

When the man had been firmly entrenched in the intelligence service, a shining example of the dedicated agent, Sherlock's life had been well-ordered and precise. His old flat on Montague Street had been tastefully but minimalistically decorated, while his personal possessions were organised with an obsession bordering on OCD. She still remembered the first time she'd stumbled upon his "sock index" and laughed so hard he'd thought that she had found his baby photos, which Sherlock kept in a hidden compartment under the sock drawer.

Since his summary discharge, Irene had watched Sherlock's life disintegrate piece by piece. First the constant refusal to eat, then setting up his own private experiments with anything he could get his hands on, and finally this disconcerting lack of concern for hygiene in his home.

"Mycroft's not trying to arrest you…I have some food here somewhere," continued Sherlock, sounding somewhat put out by her refusal of tea. When he opened the fridge, Irene was assaulted with a wave of nausea – dismembered human limbs were crammed inside the tight space, their pale fingers grasping like claws.

"Sherlock! Where did you get those  _things?_ " she hissed.

He blinked guiltily and shut the door, blocking the limbs from view. "The morgue; there's a pathologist who lets me experiment on unclaimed cadavers."

Irene knew this was not the time to challenge Sherlock about his personal life, given they were both fugitives from the law. Speaking of which…

"Mycroft thinks  _I_  told the LRA about his pacemaker, doesn't he?" said Irene incredulously. "Your brother really is a piece of work!"

"I have often said we couldn't possibly be related, but apparently DNA tests don't lie," said Sherlock with a wry smile, "…and he doesn't think that you told the LRA."

"There are only four people in the world that know about his pacemaker: you, me, Anthea, and his cardiologist, but he's only focused on  _me._ So much for all the lip service he paid to _being family_."

Sherlock looked at her expectantly, and when she apparently didn't come to the conclusion he was hoping for, he sighed. "Those men weren't just there for you, Irene. If they were, you would have been knocked out before you even saw their faces; they had to wait around for me to appear as well."

"Don't you think it's wrong that your brother can just grab people on a whim?" asked Irene. It was the thought which had plagued her ever since she had met the man a decade ago. Except then he hadn't been so powerful – or at least wasn't yet using his power in such a blatant manner.

Sherlock's expression hardened into an ice-cold mask. "We're not here to discuss  _that_ ," he said with quiet menace.

"Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and die. Is that it?"

"We should get some sleep," said Sherlock abruptly, opening the door to his bedroom. "We need to be in the Underground by early tonight."

"Sleep? The government is out looking for us; we've already stayed here too long. Get your gear together, we need to leave!"

Sherlock scoffed at her panic. "Don't worry. We have plenty of time," he said, sounding completely calm about the whole situation.

"He has CCTV footage of us coming here!"

"No, he doesn't. I know where the blind spots are – that's why I chose this flat in the first place. The two cameras that cover this entire street have been  _modified_. Mycroft is currently tied up looking for potential fake identities we have assumed. His best lead at the moment is on the BA0456 flight to Manila."

"You knew all of this was going to happen ages ago," breathed Irene, her emotions a strange mixture of shock and admiration.

"Weeks, really, but it was only confirmed after I met with the LRA, saw their detailed blueprints for the Houses of Parliament, and found out the exact date of the attack. I knew they couldn't have uranium; my sources are reliable. Given the way they wanted me to wire that box, it could only be an electromagnetic pulser, but as a terror tool that's ridiculously ineffective. Therefore it wasn't going to be a terror attack, but an assassination – an assassination of a man that they would never be able to kill any other way:  _Mycroft_. They had to pick a day when he would have to be in Parliament –"

"– The reopening of Parliament after the summer –"

"Exactly. Mycroft wouldn't have figured it out until the JIC report came back; he trusts his own sources far too much. Having been forced to conclude that his sources are wrong, he would waste no time in springing into action…but it won't be as well-planned as his usual diabolical schemes. I assure you, he won't be here for a while yet; he's still off chasing ghosts on the street. My contact in MI6 has been laying down a nice, neat trail of breadcrumbs away from our door."

Irene stared at the man who had been her closest confidant, ally, and friend for the last ten years, and marvelled at how little she really knew Sherlock. At moments like this his brilliance almost took her breath away.

"Please, don't feel the need to tell me that was remarkable or amazing," said Sherlock impassively. "John's already expressed that sentiment in every variant known to man."

Before Irene had time to realise that Sherlock had mentioned  _John_ , the front door started to swing open slowly of its own accord, the sinister creaking noise sending a spike of fear racing up Irene's spine.

She turned to look just as the wooden tip of a long, black umbrella pushed its way into the flat.

"Well, allow  _me_  to tell you how  _brilliant_  that was, little brother. It's just a pity you forgot one thing – I know you better than you know me."

 

 

* * *

_**Production Notes:** _

__

**Mycroft and absolute power.**

_As readers have probably realised, Mycroft is the British Government – and effectively a dictator. Although there are nominal checks in place to limit his power, there is no doubt who really runs the country. You will see that even though on the surface Sherlock is petulant and abrasive to his brother, he is definitely not delusional about Mycroft's power. "He is the most dangerous man you will ever meet."_

_Mycroft is cunning enough to "abuse" his power only when necessary, giving the impression of a benign, good-natured and – most importantly – distant autocrat to those that understand the extent of his power. Of course, the question of whether anyone should have so much power in a democracy does sit uncomfortably, and the problem is alluded to by Lestrade, Irene and Sherlock. However, none of them wants to risk actually challenging the status quo, and this is how Mycroft keeps his power. He ensures that everyone who knows about his power has a stake in making sure he stays in power._

**AN: Please take the time to leave kudos or write a comment- I really appreciate any feedback. It does not have to be complicated, insightful or sophisticated. Just a quick note to say you like it is enough!**


	9. Wicked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who left reviews and kudos!

 

****

**Chapter 9 - Wicked**

* * *

Sitting between her sister and Mycroft Holmes in the back of his black town car, Irene experienced what was probably the most uncomfortable moment in her life to date. In terms of discomfort, it certainly trumped the time she had been captured by the Somali National Army – when the soldiers had actually turned out to be a bunch of aspiring amateur comedians. This doubtless also trumped the time she ended up in a North Korean jail cell and found out first-hand just how  _extraordinary_  their idea of interrogation could be.

Sherlock sat directly opposite her, scowling furiously at Mycroft like a petulant toddler who has just been caught doing something naughty – like sticking his finger into a live socket.

"It's such a pity you couldn't make it to dinner," said Mycroft lightly, as if they actually were on an ordinary family outing.

"We thought hanging out with rebels would be more fun," snarled Sherlock.

"I'm sure you know how it upset Mummy."

_"I_  upset her?  _Me?_  It wasn't me that upset her, Mycroft!"

"You can tell her that yourself when you see her."

"What?" For a moment, Sherlock looked completely confused and terribly put out.

"Take a look at where we are and make a deduction," said Mycroft calmly. "Do you really think we're taking you to MI6?"

Irene leant forwards to look out of the window and realised to her surprise that they were on the M25,* speeding out of London. Judging by the look of pure anger on Sherlock's face, their destination wasn't going to be any more pleasant than the interrogation cells at Vauxhall Cross.*

* * *

By the time the car was rolling down a long gravel path through the gentle English countryside, the sun had fully risen. The sky had turned a beautiful, deep shade of blue, interrupted only by faint wisps of white cloud high in the atmosphere, shaped like prancing horses. When their destination finally emerged from behind the luscious woodland, it took Irene's breath away.

A magnificent palace,* built in the Baroque style, towered before her. The centrepiece of the house was the glorious dome sitting proudly atop the four storey mansion, its decorations glinting in the sunlight. Two long wings extended out from the main house in a curved formation, making the building look as if it was embracing the visitors. The façade of white stone gave the house a fantastical quality, as if it belonged to the pages of a fairy tale rather than to grim reality. In the front court, a circle of brilliantly-manicured lawn surrounded a small but ornate fountain that was spraying forth an intricate pattern of water. The car came to a halt just in front of the steps up to the main entrance, and the driver gracefully opened the door for Anthea.

As Irene climbed out after her sister, she had the ridiculous feeling that she was completely underdressed. Anthea was wearing a gorgeous black and purple dress that accentuated her figure and would not look out of place at an official ball.

"Welcome to the country seat of the Marquess of Salisbury," said Mycroft with a certain irony that was lost on Irene, until she looked towards Sherlock.

"He means it's his house," drawled Sherlock with a mixture of apathy and resentment.

For a moment Irene wondered why she had never asked Sherlock more about his family, but then she realised he wouldn't have volunteered the information even if she had. Their relationship had started as one of intense passion and deep fascination. There was no room for questions or answers – their time together was far too precious. As the relationship mellowed through the years, Irene and Sherlock had talked about everything but their respective backgrounds. They loved each other as unique individuals: family, background, history were completely inconsequential.

"You married well," said Irene pragmatically to Anthea. Her sister gave her a sarcastic smile and walked up the steps as the huge oak doors swung open. Irene found herself following close behind, purely out of curiosity.

The sumptuous entrance hall was paved with white and black marble, producing a chessboard effect that was elegantly illuminated by the light entering the glass dome above them. The hall was completely empty, apart from the series of marble statues in the alcoves set into the wood-panelled walls. The grand, sweeping staircase dominated the vast space: a glorious construction of white marble, polished brass and sturdy oak.

A butler or footman – Irene couldn't tell which – stood to attendance at one side, waiting expectantly. He didn't have to wait long, for at that moment, a small figure came gliding down the steps like an angel descending from the heavens.

"Mummy!" cried Sherlock, sounding overjoyed to see her. Irene had to stifle her amusement at such a word coming from the lips of a grown man. The rather fixed smile plastered on Sherlock's face was enough to give her an indication that not all was well with their mother-son relationship.

The lady, Sherlock's mother, still retained a great deal of her earlier beauty despite the delicate web of wrinkles overlaying her features. Her dark grey curls were artfully arranged to frame her piercing grey eyes. There was no doubt to whom Sherlock owed his striking looks.

"Mummy," said Mycroft, striding past Irene and embracing his mother like a dutiful son. Sherlock, clearly jealous of the attention his brother was receiving, instantly nudged his way into the closed circle of two.

Anthea caught Irene's eye at that moment, and for a second Irene forgot her resentment towards her sister: for marrying Mycroft, for never standing up for her, for manipulating her as skilfully as Mycroft manipulated Sherlock.

They burst into laughter despite the seriousness of the situation, as if they were still children.

"Anthea, darling." Mrs Holmes gracefully extracted herself from Sherlock's embrace to acknowledge their presence. "And you must be Irene, how delightful to see you both  _together_  at last."

Anthea bent down to kiss her cheek while Irene hung back, wondering how she should approach Sherlock's mother.

"Irene, Mycroft tells me that you and Sherlock will be staying here for a few days as part of your annual leave."

Irene blinked in astonishment.  _What were Mycroft and Anthea playing at_?

"If you say so," she said with forced cheerfulness, trying to sound completely causal. The little old lady walked up to her and gently took her hand.

"I'm so happy to meet you at last; Sherlock has told me so much about you. I want to thank you for all the joy you have brought him over the years. I am so terribly happy to hear that you are finally engaged!"

This time Irene didn't have time to stop her mouth from opening in shock. Without even realising what she was doing, she looked up at Sherlock, who met her eyes with an equally confused look, though he composed himself almost instantly.

"I suppose Mycroft let it slip," said Sherlock angrily. Irene was about to protest that she  _wasn't_ engaged to Sherlock and this was an entirely bizarre misunderstanding but Anthea gave her  _the look_. It was an expression that Irene knew far too well:  _don't say a word._

"Well, I'm sorry he ruined your surprise, my dear, but there is so much we have to plan for the wedding," continued Mrs Holmes. Her grip on Irene's hands suddenly tightened, making Irene feel inexplicably uncomfortable. Her subconscious was telling her to back away as quickly as possible; perhaps it was the nails digging into her skin or the strange, obsessive look that had slowly crept into Mrs Holmes' grey eyes.

Anthea stepped forward and gently detached the old lady's fingers from Irene's. "I'm sure my sister will be very grateful for everything. Shall we have some tea in the drawing room?"

Mrs Holmes blinked slowly, as if waking from a trance, and then smiled up at Anthea. "Of course, dear, that would be lovely."

The butler or footman left silently, presumably to prepare the tea tray, and Anthea calmly led Mrs Holmes away through the back of the entrance hall.

Irene let out a breath that she hadn't realised she was even holding. A firm hand gripped her shoulder, and she turned to see Sherlock standing behind her, offering wordless comfort.

"Mummy…" he said cautiously, and then paused as if the words had become stuck in his throat. "Mummy has certain  _problems_."

"Our mother is a schizophrenic," added Mycroft blandly, causing Irene to look uncertainly between the two brothers. "Don't worry, though," he continued with a humourless smile, "we apparently haven't inherited the right combination of genes to be affected."

"What are you playing at?" demanded Irene, unable to make sense of the bizarre situation she had been landed in. Being whisked away from her work and unceremoniously dumped in this opulent palace deserved at least some sort of explanation.

"Contrary to what my brother might have told you, I'm not  _arresting_ either of you. I merely would like the pair of you to have some rest and relaxation…now that everything has been wrapped up."

"Everything has not been wrapped up!" snapped Irene, even as she realised that from this point onwards, Mycroft would want sole control over the operation, in order to keep the actual plot secret. He didn't want the whole of Section D wondering just what the terrorists would gain by setting off an electromagnetic pulser. If intelligence about Mycroft's pacemaker were leaked, his life expectancy would be dramatically reduced – unless he spent the rest of his life in a lead-lined bunker underground.

"You must understand, Irene, that your involvement in this mission has come to an end. Please avail yourself of the respite; perhaps you can ask Mummy for some baby photos of Sherlock…."

Speaking of Sherlock, he had become suspiciously silent all of a sudden. Apparently he didn't want to upset his mother by telling the old lady that they had no intention of getting married, or of staying at this house for a moment longer. Irene realised only now how much Sherlock adored his mother…and simply couldn't bring himself to dispel her misguided notions. He was effectively imprisoned by his concern for her happiness – a beautifully devious move on Mycroft's part, worthy of Machiavelli.

"Listen, Mycroft, I know you want to end this thing without anyone finding out about the terrorists, but you can't proceed as things currently stand. We're still missing  _something!_ "

Irene had first noticed the nagging feeling at the back of her mind after briefing the special ops team about her suspicions. The cancellation of the mission had been met with a great deal of opposition, but Lestrade's booming voice had prevailed over the cacophony of protests. Irene and the rest of Section D were not about to become popular with the special ops any time soon, but at least they had gained their co-operation.

One particularly sharp young lieutenant had raised his hand towards the end of the session, frowning in puzzlement.

_"_ From the chatter our analysts have picked up, there's a great deal of excitement about this bomb amongst the subversive elements. If that thing isn't a dirty bomb, the whole scenario doesn't  _fit._ "

Now as the adrenaline faded, that stinging sensation of having missed something important returned with a vengeance. Her mentor, Lestrade, had always praised her ability to see things that others overlooked. Her "sixth sense", he had called it: the instinctive feeling that all was not quite right. It was nothing like Sherlock's clear, calculated deductions, in which only his logical thoughts were engaged. Her instincts were much vaguer – a subconscious awareness that couldn't be put into words or analysed – but these instincts had saved her life far too many times to be discounted.

"I assure you, Irene," continued Mycroft politely, "everything will be taken care of."

His tone had a finality that only a man with his power and position could convey. It drained both resistance and hope from its listeners and crushed any thoughts of dissent. Irene wanted to argue, to shout in frustration, but Sherlock's hand returned to her shoulder, and she realised there was nothing she could do.

* * *

Deep underground, John was dreaming of grass: the smooth, silky strands matted into a beautiful carpet of green stretching as far as the eye could see. His paradise was interrupted by the sensation of being shaken roughly.

John awoke with a start and found himself staring blearily into the steely-grey eyes of his captain, Seb.

"Get up, John."

"Captain?" John's body told him it was still far too early to be awake, and he fought a sweeping urge to just lie back down.

"Your presence has been ordered in the command centre."

Still choked by the fog of sleep, it took several long moments for John to realise the seriousness of the request. When his mind eventually caught up with events, he scrambled hastily out of his sleeping bag and stood up on shaking legs.

"Come on," ordered Seb roughly. John ran after him, his heart pounding with excitement and fear.

By the time they'd reached the conference room of Company C, John's sleep-addled mind had finally cleared enough for him to realise that it was highly unusual for any of the commanders to be awake at such an early hour. Something very important must be about to happen.

As he stepped into the bunker, he was shocked to see  _all_  of the high commanders sitting silently around the table, looking far more awake than John felt. At the head of the round metal table, poring over what looked like a picture of the Underground power station, was a short, lithe man John had never seen before. Suddenly, the man looked up from the diagrams and stared straight into John's wide eyes.

"Hello," he said with a  _wicked_  smile that seemed to paralyse John, "nice to meet you. I'm Jim..."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Footnotes:**
> 
>  
> 
> *M25: For people who haven't visited London, the M25 is the motorway ring road around London that causes a great deal of grief for commuters.
> 
> *Vauxhall Cross: the new headquarters of MI6 (the Secret Intelligence Services) overlooking the river. If you've seen Skyfall, it's the building that gets blown up. MI5 (the Security Services) headquarters at Thames House are on the other side of river, whence they fondly refer to MI6 as TSAR (those sh*ts across the river).
> 
> *The Holmes estate is based on the real life Castle Howard, in North Yorkshire. Google it, it's magnificent.
> 
>  
> 
> **Production Notes:**
> 
> Mummy and schizophrenia
> 
> With the character of Mummy, I decided that she would have schizophrenia because it was one condition which has a sort of "remitting-relapsing" course. Many people living perfectly normal lives with this disorder as long as they take their medication; but some have break through psychotic episodes and others do not comply with treatment. Giving Mummy a mental illness helps to build a picture of Sherlock/Mycroft's childhood and also explain why they are to all intent and purposes alone in the world. I think it is much more poignant that their mother is still alive but unable to offer consistent emotional support. In this universe it goes some way to explaining why Sherlock is reluctant to have a family and also why he is able to love passionately but fears emotional closeness. He adores his mother but she cannot consistently reciprocate that love during his formative years. Sherlock I believe had to distance himself emotionally from his mother in order to remain emotionally stable throughout his childhood.
> 
> As a medical student I spent far too much time on psychiatry. Understanding of psychiatric disease is to all intent and purposes still stuck in the Victorian era. We have very little idea of the pathology behind the syndromes that we witness. The diseases are not classified on the basis of pathology and aetiology (cause) as in most other branches of medicine but on the presenting symptoms. In effect all psychiatric diseases are really psychiatric syndromes. What psychiatrists can really do is support the patient and their families through what are commonly chronic conditions.
> 
>  
> 
> _Once again please take the time to leave a review - your comments, thoughts, feedback and encouragement mean a great deal to me._


	10. Distraction

 

 

* * *

 

The mid-morning sun transformed the day from cool and brisk to warm and humid in a matter of hours. Despite the still-early hour, heat had already imbued the gardens with a hazy, lethargic atmosphere. The bees buzzed sedately between the rose bushes, and crickets chirped languidly amidst the undergrowth.

“Do you like it?” asked Sherlock quietly as they walked through the garden. Irene’s mind was still wrapped up with thoughts of the mission, but Sherlock seemed to have moved on from that preoccupation, and he appeared to be taking his role as host very seriously.

“Does it matter?”

“It’s still  _my_  home as much as Mycroft’s,” muttered Sherlock, and Irene realised that her abrupt answer must have hurt him deeply. He was attached to this place, as much as man of Sherlock’s detached disposition could be.

“I do like it. There are just more important things to worry about.”

Sherlock didn’t reply; instead, he led her into the shade of an old, gnarled oak tree. It stood like a solitary survivor in the middle of the lush, manicured lawn outside the formal gardens, at the point where complicated topiary and geometric flower beds gave way to something a little more natural. It took Irene several moments to realise that the rock underneath the tree was not ornamental, but a  _tombstone._  It was small, rectangular and devoid of any superfluous decoration: perhaps it was a pet cemetery for Sherlock’s or Mycroft’s beloved animals. As she came closer, Irene could decipher the words carved into the grey stone.

_Enola* Holmes – loved and was loved_

It was a simple, elegant epithet that told Irene absolutely nothing about the pet that was buried beneath the slab. She wondered for a moment whether it had been a dog, cat or even a canary – certainly it had been cherished during its life, but then seemingly forgotten. There were no flowers adorning the grave, and the grass around it was so sparse, there was no need to trim away the vegetation.

Sherlock knelt down and brushed some of the lichen from the stone front with his fingers. He seemed contemplative and melancholy.

“Do you know why there’s such a big age gap between Mycroft and me?” he asked. Irene shook her head; her mind was still going over the details of the mission: Mycroft’s anonymous source, the lack of weapons-grade uranium, the little black box, the young special ops lieutenant who was so sure the whole thing  _didn’t fit_.

“It’s because of her.” He pointed at the small grave.

Irene stared at the stone in confusion, trying to work out why the presence of an animal would make Sherlock’s mother reluctant to have another child. It was only after several seconds of bizarre imagination that Irene finally realised what Sherlock had been trying to tell her.

“She’s your sister!”

The plain, unattractive grave suddenly looked a lot more neglected than before, and it filled Irene with a strange sense of sadness. Why had the family buried their only daughter alone in the middle of the garden like some inconsequential pet, and not in the churchyard with the rest of the family – with her father, Robert Cecil-Holmes?

“I brought you here because…” Sherlock hesitated and stood up, looking highly uncomfortable. “I know about the baby,” he blurted out.

Irene stared at him as she felt the unmistakable sensation of her stomach freefalling through her abdomen. The pounding of her heart drowned out the lazy buzz of insects and suddenly the world seemed to shrink until there was nothing but Sherlock, looking at her with indescribably sad eyes. No past, no future, just this one moment burning itself into her memory forever. She must have started hyperventilating, because the tips of her fingers were tingling. Her vision blurred, faded, and then came back in much sharper focus, so that she could see every imperfection on Sherlock’s pale skin.

It was too late to hide her reaction, and even if she had been able to, Sherlock would still  _know_.

“The baby,” she murmured.

“I know why you won’t marry me, why you’ve held me at arm’s length for all this time,” he said, so quickly that the words seemed to run into each other.

“I thought,” she whispered, “you wanted it that way.”

He looked a little surprised, but then regained whatever was left of his composure.

“I’ve seen what it is to lose a child, Irene; I know it can destroy a person, a family – completely. I…I want to tell you…that you are brave, incredibly brave, but you don’t have to live with it alone. I –” he stopped and looked away from her, up at the thick branches of the oak tree above them, as if he couldn’t find the strength to carry on. “ _We_ – we can move on from it, if you will just talk to me….”

“How – how did you find out? It was ten years ago.”

“My quest for Moriarty led me to reopen all the old files – going back to the first time I ever heard the name and the first time I ever met you. I went over everything with a fine-tooth comb. I found…three months when your movements were unaccounted for after you defected from Moriarty.”

Irene wanted to say something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come out.

“I used every resource available to find out what you had been doing those three months before you reappeared and joined MI5. I found the certificate of stillbirth for the baby – you listed my alias as…as the father.”

His eyes were swimming with emotion, a sight that Irene had not seen since that fateful night when he had coordinated the prisoner exchange with the North Korean facilities where she had been held.  _I’m so glad you’re safe_ , he had admitted when they were finally alone. She was so dazed and sore she couldn’t bring herself to actually touch him, and he had accepted that – spending the night sitting next to her on the floor, ever watchful and loyal.

“Yes, I did,” she admitted.

“Why?”

“Because – I had hoped he would be your son.”

At first his expression didn’t change, she was afraid that he would suddenly lose his composure or walk away – as he was apt to do – from a difficult emotional situation, and leave her alone to drown in memories she had suppressed for nearly a decade. However, to her astonishment, he stepped towards her – his eyes shining with an emotion that looked at once familiar and foreign, an emotion that she could not name, though she felt her heart seize in sympathy nonetheless.

“Thank you,” he whispered, and he wrapped his thin arms gently around her trembling figure. “I…appreciate it.”*  
  
  
  
  


 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Five hours and a restless sleep later, Irene found herself staring numbly at the empty fireplace in the drawing room while the dowager marchioness happily talked about her upcoming wedding to Sherlock. Playing along with the outlandish charade were Anthea and Sherlock. Mycroft had since excused himself on account of government business and returned to London, leaving Irene effectively imprisoned in his country home.

The paintings of long-deceased Holmeses seemed to stare intently down at her from the walls. Their pedigree was like a Mendelian experiment into human genetics. The majority were adorned with dark curls and noble Roman features, but about a quarter were gifted with the recessive traits of blonde hair and blue eyes.  A particularly bonny little boy with rosy cheeks and straight, golden hair smiled at Irene from a portrait abundant with beautiful blue flowers. She looked away; the sight of this happy, healthy child caused her more pain than she would ever want to admit.

Across the room, Sherlock looked relaxed and comfortable. Now that Irene had managed to regain her mental faculties, she realised he must have known about their stillborn child for a long time – enough time for Sherlock to overcome the trauma of the discovery in his own way. Only when he had reached an emotional equilibrium had he confronted her. The place, time, and setting had all been carefully chosen.

_And people think Sherlock understands nothing of human emotion…._

In the years after the birth, she had tried so hard not to think about the tiny, pink infant in her arms. He hadn’t looked conventionally beautiful or even pleasant, but he was  _perfect_ , just perfect. Then she’d had to leave him, and the world, which had lit up for one brief moment, went completely dark.

Her baby would be ten years old now. Perhaps he would be as thin as his father, and just as much of an irascible genius; or perhaps he would be the calm counterbalance to Sherlock’s flares of brilliance, and the glue that held their little family together.

But it was not meant to be, and, as she had told herself countless times over the years, thinking about the past would not change the present. Her child was gone, and she had no right to call herself his mother anymore.

 

 

Irene had found a way to occupy her mind –  _work_. It was as potent and addictive as any of the anti-depressants or sedatives the doctors had prescribed for her. Work gave her purpose, focus, and sometimes the fleeting sense of humanity that she craved.

Sherlock had no idea of the floodgates he had opened with his questions…or perhaps he did, and he genuinely thought it was the right thing to do. Either way, now more than ever, she needed to concentrate on the mission, or else she would be completely lost.

 _The whole scenario doesn’t fit._ The young lieutenant’s voice kept playing itself over and over again inside her head like a stuck record. She didn’t even know his name, but his pale face haunted her thoughts as much his words did. Driven by that spectre, Irene diligently worked through all the pieces of information she had managed to gather about the supposed plot.

Firstly, Mycroft’s anonymous source had provided intelligence that the LRA had a nuclear bomb. That intelligence had to be discounted, now that Irene knew that all the sources of the world’s enriched uranium were accounted for…but Mycroft was not a man to blindly trust his sources, no matter who they were. He must have analysed the data in minute detail and been convinced it was true. That alone made Irene cautious about labelling the intelligence  _wrong_.

Secondly, there was the issue of the electromagnetic pulser. It was not entirely true that the box  _had_  to contain an EMP generator; that was merely the most probable answer, and one that Sherlock had arrived at as well. However, the existence of an EMP device didn’t automatically mean Mycroft’s source was incorrect.

Perhaps they were both completely wrong, or perhaps they were both completely  _right._

The third issue was the  _style_ of the assassination. It was brilliant, subtle, and so very unlike anything the LRA had done before. They were  _terrorists,_  not assassins – their primary motive was to spread fear amongst the populace. This quiet, deadly, and remote method of killing simply didn’t produce the fear factor that blowing out someone’s brains all over the pavement or reducing a public building to dust with hundreds of people inside would. The terrorists were focused on destroying the government, but they had always had that goal. What was the rush right now? They had waited patiently underneath the surface for decades; surely they would want Mycroft’s death to be more spectacular and public than a heart attack, which could be attributed to natural causes.

Finally, Irene’s mind returned, illogically, to the night she had met John Watson. The image of the young boy rolling around on the grass like an excited puppy almost caused her to smile. Why had she thought of this now, of all times?

 _Because her child would be the same age_ …. Irene ruthlessly suppressed that thought: the whole point of this exercise was to stop thinking about the baby.

It must have been something John had said, something that, now that time had passed, Irene’s subconscious had finally managed to understand the importance of.

_“Oh, there’s an entire power plant down in the Underground. Seb told me that the LRA built it a long time ago from what was left over after the Second World War.”_

The realisation that this was what had been festering at the back of her mind came as a relief – like an itch that had finally been scratched. However a myriad of different questions blossomed from the simple statement.

 _An underground power plant_ – _but what kind of fuel could it run on?_

Gas was out of the question: if someone was siphoning off enough gas to run a power station, the government would know about it. Coal was far too bulky for tonnes of it to disappear underground without anyone noticing, and without generating a huge trail of evidence.

_What else could there be?_

The answer struck like an epiphany from the heavens, leaving Irene breathless with adrenaline. It was  _obvious,_  so incredibly obvious. Sherlock, MI5, the JIC had all been on the right path, but looking in entirely the wrong direction. No current nuclear material was unaccounted for, but that didn’t mean older sources of uranium didn’t exist.

A nuclear power station built by Churchill during the Second World War could still be fully functional, if properly maintained, and  _that_  was what the LRA were about to blow up under London. The electromagnetic pulser was just the  _distraction_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes:
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> *Remember when Sherlock got a phone call from Q in Chapter 4 – Q was the man who hacked the hospital records for Sherlock and pieced together the stillbirth certificate.
> 
> *Enola is not an original character (or at least the name isn’t my invention). Nancy Springer invented her for the Enola Holmes series. She is the youngest Holmes, a sister who escapes boarding school to become a detective in London like Sherlock. I’ve decided to borrow the name, but that’s about all that will remain the same about Enola.  
> Enola Holmes will be central to the plot of the sequel (yes there is a sequel). But she’s dead! I hear readers exclaim. Well, so is Moriarty, and he casts a massive shadow. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Production Notes:
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Irene and the Baby**
> 
>  
> 
> Writing the scene for Irene and Sherlock under the oak tree was incredibly difficult particularly has neither of these character ever come close to this level of emotional exposure in the series. As for Irene’s backstory, I had envisaged her joining Moriarty at the beginning of his terror campaign – seduced by his brilliance and danger, blinded by her own idealism and urge to rebel. Then Sherlock appears out of the blue – equally amazing and intense but in a different way. He managed through their courtship to convince Irene of what Moriarty’s true plans which have nothing to do with liberation. Disillusioned, she gave Sherlock the key to bringing down that particular terror cell and forced Moriarty to escape with his plans in shreds but Irene is still a wanted terrorist. Mycroft Holmes attempts to capture her but Sherlock fakes her death (a la ASIB) and Irene goes into hiding for several months where no one can track her. Sherlock manages to negotiate a deal with Mycroft over Irene and she is eventually allowed back in the country to work for MI5.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Please take the time to leave a comment or kudos**


	11. Cryptic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my two wonderful beta readers: Trishkafibble and DT

 

****

Any other person would have mistakenly attributed sinister motives to the expression of pure joy spreading across Sherlock's face at the news that the LRA were about to blow up a nuclear power station. However, Irene had known the maddening genius for too long to actually believe he was a high-functioning sociopath.

"Of course!  _It's brilliant_ ," said Sherlock, his face a picture of delight. Irene was about to smile at his childlike glee when a strange sense of foreboding overcame her. "Don't you see," continued Sherlock, his hands clasped under his chin, "this is  _Moriarty's_ scheme."

Resisting the urge to groan, Irene fixed Sherlock with a stern glare. "Moriarty is  _dead,_  Sherlock. You told me you had stopped your investigation into that madman."

Completely ignoring her, Sherlock continued to pace up and down the empty corridor as if he was in a trance. "It all fits, so explosive and yet elegant…. He's been planning this for a long time, ever since he faked his death– he's predicted our every move so far…."

"Sherlock!"

Suddenly the ex-spy snapped out of his reverie and twisted around to face her. "Mycroft's office," he said abruptly, and before Irene could protest, he was dragging her down the corridor like the devil was in pursuit.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It took all of five minutes for Sherlock to pick the lock to Mycroft's study. The heavy oak door gave way under Sherlock's tender ministrations, and swung open smoothly on its well-oiled hinges. Surprisingly, Mycroft had only installed a sophisticated triple lock, without any other security measures. Inside, the room was dark, the bright afternoon sun effectively obscured by the thick velvet curtains covering all the windows. Two walls were completely covered from floor to ceiling in bookshelves, and in the dim light, Irene could just make out that most of the shelf-space was taken up with treasury files: official red boxes with gold banding around them. The broad, mahogany desk stood against the far wall like a crouching giant, its surface covered with neat stacks of paperwork bearing the official seal of government. This was the jackpot in terms of classified information, just as Sherlock had promised.

"Mycroft works from here?" asked Irene, almost forgetting to keep her voice down in case the servants were nearby.

"He likes to keep an eye on Mummy and be on hand during crises."

" _Crises_?"

"She has medication-resistant schizophrenia," explained Sherlock, closing the door behind them silently. "Most of the time she's only mildly psychotic, but…."

He didn't finish the sentence, because he had spotted something on Mycroft's desk. Sherlock swooped down on it as gracefully as an eagle and plucked the piece of loose paper from the middle of a stack. Except it wasn't just any piece of loose paper, it was a large A3 sheet of drafting paper with "Thames Water" written on the heading. On closer inspection, it turned out to be part of a much larger schematic of the storm drains and large-scale water pipes underneath London. How this could be relevant to the possible secret nuclear power station was a mystery to Irene, but Sherlock appeared to be completely absorbed by the diagram.

"What exactly are you hoping to find?" whispered Irene, stepping up cautiously behind him.

"World War II archives. Mycroft's got a passion for historical documents," said Sherlock, though his mind was obviously still focused on the sheet of drafting paper.

She left him to it – there was nothing she could do when he retreated into his own mind. Instead she explored the desk, looking for any signs of yellowing paper that could indicate archives from the past. It didn't take long for her to find something promising: a battered leather box set behind the high-backed leather chair. It still had residual clumps of dust clinging to odd corners, but it had definitely been opened recently.

Inside was exactly what Irene had been looking for: war records.

"Sherlock," she hissed, bringing the box up to the desk. He placed the schematic back in its original place and rifled through the box with her. It wasn't the treasure trove she had been hoping for: just account books filled with detailed records of the food and materials brought into the secret military base in the London Underground. It was only after ten frustrating minutes that Irene stumbled upon a dirty ledger, much more frayed than the rest and marked with water stains. She instantly realised it was just not another account book, but it still took her several moments to understand exactly what had been record.

"These are Geiger-counter readings," whispered Irene. She ran her hands down the column with the time and dates – each entry was exactly 8 hours apart. Sherlock grabbed the book from her and flipped through, right to the last filled page.

_December 14th 1944 13.00 Westminster Underground Station_

"The readings have gone through the roof," pointed out Sherlock.

Irene analysed the records: within a matter of days, the radioactivity readings had increased from tolerable to levels almost incompatible with life.

"This is why Churchill abandoned the London Underground," continued Sherlock flatly.

"Did you know this?" asked Irene accusingly.  _Had he known even as he descended into the bowels of the city and deliberately put his life at risk?_

"I heard stories from my grandfather. He was one of Churchill's close confidants, and almost senile by the time I bothered to listen."

"The official story –"

"Was concocted so that people wouldn't abandon London and actually turn it into a wasteland…."

"But millions and millions of people are living just metres above a radioactive leak!" cried Irene.

"Think about it, there's about ten metres of reinforced concrete between us and the highest of the Underground tunnels. That fulfils the standard modern guidelines for disposal of radioactive waste that produces gamma radiation."

"Churchill couldn't have known!" hissed Irene.

"Well, we should be glad he got it right," muttered Sherlock.

"But John…." She wasn't quite sure why she was so concerned about his health when he was about to be obliterated by a nuclear meltdown anyway.

"He appears to be alright – he's definitely going to be infertile as an adult, but otherwise I can't see any obvious signs of malignancy."

"You looked?" whispered Irene incredulously.

"Why wouldn't I? According to John, the other members of his platoon exhibited signs consistent with lymphoma and leukaemia before they died. They call it the 'bleeding sickness'."

Irene pressed her hands against her forehead, trying to make sense of it all. Only a few hours ago, the situation had been so incredibly simple: a dirty bomb, a quick special ops strike, London is saved and everything goes back to normal. Now twist upon twist, lies upon lies had left her completely disorientated. Her mind automatically latched onto an obvious piece of information she had overlooked until now….

" _Mycroft_  has these documents in his  _study_. He must know about this!"

Sherlock paused for a moment, his eyes roving wildly around the room as if he was piecing images together in his mind.

"Perhaps," replied Sherlock; but a hint of uncertainty crept into his voice.

"So – why did he make us all focus on the decoy bomb?"

Sherlock thought again before answering.

"Because he couldn't confirm that the LRA would actually blow up their own power station. Up until the JIC report came out, Mycroft was still working under the twin assumptions that the bomb was real and that they were going to blow up the power station as well. Now he knows they're just going to blow up the power station, and the 'bomb' I'm making is an amusing little side show."

"It could still kill him…."

"Unlikely, if I wire it incorrectly."

Irene opened her mouth to protest and then realised it was futile. Mycroft apparently had everything planned out.

"But how did the LRA get information on his pacemaker in the first place?"

"You do realise his cardiologist is currently in the bowels of Vauxhall Cross being interrogated by MI6's finest…."

"And if it's not the cardiologist?" asked Irene. "Am  _I_  about to face his wrath?"

"He knows it's not you: he's had you under level-three active surveillance for the last ten years," said Sherlock, in what he must have thought was a reassuring voice.

"What!" It was as though fate had decided that Irene hadn't gotten her fair share of shock, and thus conspired to deliver a bumper-load of surprises all in one day.

Sherlock sighed and started to put the documents back in their original places.

"Irene, you made me an accomplice in your schemes and ruined his Bond Air project whilst you were working for Moriarty. He has forgiven you and he even trusts you, but that doesn't mean he's not watching your every move. If it makes you feel any better, he even installed cameras in my bathroom – he has videos of me singing naked in the shower."

Irene glared at Sherlock.

"That is  _so_   _creepy_."

Buried in disturbing thoughts of Mycroft Holmes watching  _her_  shower, Irene completely forgot to ask why the piece of drafting paper from Thames Water had been so important to him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Afternoon tea had barely been concluded when Mrs Holmes retired upstairs to get ready for dinner, leaving Anthea, Sherlock and Irene alone in the library: a vast, long gallery divided into three separate sections by towering bookshelves that reached almost to the vaulted roof. The interior wall was completely covered from floor to ceiling with leather-bound books, some of which looked like they pre-dated the printing press. The exterior wall was exquisitely decorated with splendid Italian frescos, elegantly separated by perfectly-spaced, tall sash windows that allowed warm rays of sunshine to cascade in. Comfortable Chippendale couches and armchairs were dotted along the gallery, and about halfway down the hall was a grand piano, standing proudly as the centrepiece of the room.

"Find anything interesting?" asked Anthea as she perched on the armrest of Irene's chair.

"I'm not a great fan of classical literature," Irene muttered, showing her sister the cover of her book.

"I meant in Mycroft's office," responded Anthea lightly.

Irene held her nerve and looked back up at her sister with just the right amount of surprise and curiosity. "Mycroft has an office here?"

"Yes, dear," replied Anthea condescendingly, "the room that you and Sherlock spent nearly half an hour rifling through. Like I said: did you find anything interesting?"

Sherlock wandered over to them from the piano, his expression unreadable. "No, we found absolutely nothing – except the existence of a secret nuclear power station under London that is about to be blown up by the LRA tomorrow morning," he said impassively.

Anthea smiled at him slyly and got up from Irene's chair with languid, feline grace. Whatever those two were playing at, Irene had the sudden urge not to be within the blast radius.

"Clever boy, I thought it wouldn't take you long to figure it out. Find anything else?"

"Only what you already found when you went scouring through his office while we were walking in the garden."

Irene looked quickly from her sister to Sherlock. She had noticed signs of recent activity in Mycroft's office, such as the loose sheet of paper within the orderly stack, but she hadn't given it much thought.

"Mycroft needs your help even if he won't admit it. I assume you have no objections to leaving to assist him?" said Anthea calmly, her hawk-like eyes watching the minute reactions of Sherlock's expression. To his credit, Sherlock contained his surprise at this proposal of an unlikely alliance rather well.

"Absolutely," he breathed, looking at once uncertain and overjoyed.

"Perfect, we're breaking out after dinner, and we should arrive in time for you to visit your rebel friends."

"Well, our escape had better be damned fast: I'm expected early in the evening."

"Anthea, are you trapped here, too?" said Irene incredulously.  _How did her spirited sister cope with being married to a control freak like Mycroft?_

"No, silly," Anthea replied with a patronising smirk, "I'm breaking  _you_ out."

"How are we going to do that?" demanded Irene – but she was met with two very cryptic smiles.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Production Notes:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _The Abandoned Underground_
> 
>  
> 
> The official explanation for abandoning the London Underground was that it had become too costly to run and maintain. The exits were sealed and the tunnels passed into the stuff of legend. People claimed all sorts of things lived down there from alligators to giant rats but no one ever got close to the truth. Occasionally the homeless would break into the stations for shelter but it soon spread through their number that some who did so simply disappeared. It was only through extensive questioning and listening to stories passed down on the streets did Sherlock finally realise that there might actually be a terrorist cell living in the underground.
> 
> _Irene and Anthea_
> 
> I love Anthea in the Sherlock series and I wanted to flesh out her back story. I understand many readers have probably thought – why is she Irene's sister? I think it makes for a very interesting dynamic when two sisters marry two brothers. There is as much history between the Adler sisters as there are between the Holmes Brothers – but women tend to deal with their differences in different ways.  
> As Irene and Anthea get to send quite a lot of time together, it was much more fun to give them a very personal history than just writing two powerful women meeting. They would inevitably size each other up and be politely distant. Instead I get to work with two sisters who are so alike and yet so different. In essence they mirror the Holmes Brothers. I personally imagine, because Irene and Anthea are much closer in age, they fought like wild cats as children (Irene probably still has scars).
> 
> I do not get to explore Irene and Anthea's relationship very well in this story and I would have liked to but the Holmes Brothers really hogged the limelight but the solution: the sequel.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Again reviews are love and very very welcome, please take the time to write a few words or leave Kudos**


	12. Silence

****

**Chapter 12 - Silence**

* * *

 

 

Had this been a proper, authorised mission, Irene would be terribly embarrassed at her lack of concentration. She blamed her sluggish performance entirely on the delicious three-course meal of salmon terrine, roast beef, and sticky toffee pudding.

The three of them – Anthea, Sherlock, and herself – had left dinner under the pretence of needing to get some fresh air in the gardens. All the gear they would require had been packed into their evening wear. Irene personally found the idea of changing into her sister's ball gown for the express purpose of having dinner a bit melodramatic, but the compact grappling hook with its automatic firing mechanism hidden under her dress was even more melodramatic. Anthea clearly thought they were about to break out of Guantanamo Bay.

The long summer day was not yet drawing to a close; the sun was still lingering above the horizon, producing lengthy, slanted shadows in the garden. As they approached the edge of the vast, manicured lawns, Irene looked back up the gently-sloping gardens to the magnificent house dominating the horizon. It must have been an intimidating place to grow up in: all those long corridors and dark, empty rooms. This house was not a blank canvas upon which its owners could imprint some of their own personalities. Instead, the occupants were merely custodians being moulded by the house and its history.

A strong arm shot out in front of her and blocked her path. Seemingly out of nowhere, Anthea produced a can of hairspray and with delicate precision covered the air in front of her. At once a meshwork of laser beams appeared before their eyes, just beyond the decorative metal fence that separated the gardens from the deer park.

"First obstacle," said Anthea, suddenly turning to the left and crouching down to rummage in the wild grass, no doubt looking for the control box that powered the lasers. Irene bent down to help her look and was abruptly reminded of how ridiculous they must seem, crawling around in their elegant evening gowns.

The control box was not hard to locate. Opening it was another matter, but Sherlock had come prepared with a small tube of plastic explosive from heaven-knows-where. Dirt was used to muffle the sound of the explosion, though the plume of soil rising into the sky was conspicuous in its own right. Anthea wasted no time typing in the manual override code as the self-destruct sequence of the control box started to count down.

Another round of hair spray later, the three of them clambered over the fence and into the wild deer park beyond.

"There's at least three teams of guards patrolling the perimeter," Anthea said as they marched purposefully forward without bothering to find cover. She pulled out her Blackberry and called up their current location on what was clearly a non-standard GPS app. A series of moving red dots showed that the nearest patrol team had passed their location while they were still standing in the garden, and the second patrol would not happen upon them for some time.

"Mycroft's getting sloppy," observed Sherlock, fiddling with the lining of his tailored dinner jacket.

"No, he was just relying on me to keep you from escaping," answered Anthea nonchalantly. "Also, he didn't reckon on external help." Just as Anthea finished her sentence, Irene became aware of an almost imperceptible noise approaching and becoming louder. It was the unmistakable sound of helicopter blades.

"I think this will get you back in time," shouted Anthea, as the helicopter appeared over the treetops like a giant bird of prey. "Be sure to thank Q for me."

_Sometimes,_  Irene thought,  _it's rather convenient to have Anthea for a sister._

* * *

 

 

The helicopter landed on the roof of Vauxhall Cross and Sherlock sprang out like a leopard, all grace and impatience. He felt exhilarated, adrenaline coursing through his veins like a drug, enhancing his vision, strength and speed. His pupils were dilated, his breathing harsh and his heart pounding.

Thoughts both connected and independent rushed through Sherlock's mind like a whirlwind of information that only he could control. Anomalies amidst the facts had been surgically extracted and segregated into a separate compartment earlier to be analysed now, when the time was right.

The first anomaly, which Irene had not picked up on, was that Mycroft had apparently been planning to send three hundred special ops officers to take down the LRA. That was simply not his  _style_. The man was in love with the idea of the butterfly effect: a seemingly inconsequential act on his part that would lead to a great upheaval further on. In the heat of the moment during his argument with Lestrade, Sherlock had overlooked this weakness of his brother. However, once he had taken the time to analyse it, he realised that a blanket kill order was not in keeping with Mycroft's subtleness.

Sherlock had an idea of what his brother might actually be planning. It seemed a little far-fetched even for a man who wove intricate and torturous schemes, but right now Sherlock couldn't think of other, more likely alternatives.

The second anomaly was and had always been  _Moriarty_. Ever since Sherlock found out that the EMP device was just a distraction, he had known for certain that Moriarty didn't have just a passing interest in this fiasco: he had designed the entire grandiose, complex, and positively Byzantine scheme. He loved plots within plots, deceptions to hide yet more deceptions. It was entirely possible that the nuclear explosion was not the only keystone in Moriarty's grand design. Sherlock was still missing something, something very important – the  _motivation_ for this plot.

_Why now?_ If the power station had been there for over sixty years,  _why blow it up now?_  If the terrorists had been successfully using the Underground as a base,  _why destroy it now?_ If Moriarty was confirmed dead and happily working from the shadows,  _why show his hand now?_

Questions without answers, like ships without anchors, tossed and rolled in Sherlock's mind.

As Sherlock had expected, a tall, lanky young man with a mop of curly black hair very much resembling his own ran up the steps to greet them. He was wearing an oatmeal-coloured cardigan and thick-rimmed black glasses that together made him look like a stereotypical socially-awkward nerd.

"Irene, Sherlock," he said breathlessly. "Anthea called and asked me to help out. I'm not really supposed to be doing MI5 work –"

"We know, Q" said Sherlock abruptly. "Contact Lestrade at MI5 and have the special ops standing by."

"Sherlock, they've been told to stand down by Mycroft."

Sherlock twisted around, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling with apprehension.  _Considering that Mycroft had already given the special ops team a blanket kill order, why would he pull them out now?_  There could only be one explanation, and it confirmed all of Sherlock's worst fears.

"So they're not getting ready for an assault?" he asked, scrutinising Q's expression.

"Heavens, no. Lestrade's currently in the Grand Dorchester drinking his wages."

They had reached the lift by now, and Irene hastily pulled out her mobile. "We need to warn Mycroft about the power station; he obviously doesn't know," she said impatiently.

"Stop!" Sherlock grabbed her phone and covered the touch screen with his hand. His first deduction regarding Mycroft's plan had been correct.

"Sherlock, a nuclear power station is about to explode under Westminster!"

"What?" Q looked from Irene to Sherlock as if he was trying to decide which one of them would break the charade and yell  _surprise!_

"Q, get Lestrade, and make sure your boss doesn't find out about our presence – I have a feeling Gareth Mallory is in on this, too."

Q hesitated before nodding determinedly. Three minutes later, Sherlock and Irene were sitting in a deserted open-plan office. Lestrade's voice crackled over the speaker on the desk in front of them.

"Sherlock? Have you heard the news? MI6 have taken over the entire bloody operation and we're left out in the damn cold. Bloody Six and their bloody, bloody superiority complex. If I ever get hold of Mallory I'm going to shove these beers so far up his nose, it'll mash his brains."

"Aye! Hear, hear!" cried Gregson and Dimmock, who were presumably drinking their share of the aforementioned beers. Gregson, the head of Section C, and Dimmock, the commander of MI5 special ops, clearly had also been given the afternoon off, and were just as affronted by the prospect of losing  _their_  operation to MI6.

"Listen, Lestrade, Gregson, Dimmock: you have to get your teams and the special ops unit ready within the next half-hour. We need to raid the Underground," insisted Sherlock.

"Are you crazy?" said Lestrade. "Us, defy an order from Mycroft Holmes?  _You_  might get out of it alive, but I don't want to spend the rest of my days in some godforsaken Libyan prison being ' _treated humanely'_."

"If you give a damn about the potential intelligence we could get out of these rebels, you'll do this!" snapped Sherlock.

"I am not trading intelligence for the careers of my officers. Besides, even if we do capture any rebels, MI6 would just confiscate them and have them shot anyway," replied Lestrade gravely.

Sherlock took a deep breath and willed himself to remain calm. Throughout these last few weeks, he had been desperately trying to find some way of preventing the wholesale slaughter of the LRA base. If weapons were drawn, the special ops would make no distinction between terrorists and a brainwashed child.

_John_ , it all came back to John. There was no point in pretending he didn't care about the boy anymore: it would just be deluding himself. There was a connection there – a rare, fragile bond that Sherlock had never experienced before – and he was terrified of losing it.

"There's a bloody great stock of uranium under Westminster!" cried Sherlock. "It's a power station left over from the Second World War.  _That's_ the thing they're going to blow up! Oh, the actual explosion will be a mere hole in the ground, but the radiation cloud released will cover most of Western Europe. And if that doesn't bother you, maybe you should consider the fact that the uranium would soak into the groundwater, polluting the Thames and all our reservoirs, making England completely uninhabitable!"

There was only silence over the line and when Sherlock looked up at Q, he could see that the man's face had turned a ghastly shade of grey.

"Does Mycroft know about this?" asked Lestrade finally. His voice sounded much weaker than before.

"Of course he does," said Sherlock, "and we have to stop him!"

"What? Why?" demanded the voices of all three very confused MI5 officers over the speakerphone.

"Mycroft hasn't really sent MI6 to complete your operation! He needed to make sure that none of us would be in the Underground when he sets his plan in motion. He is going to single-handedly stop the explosion and kill all the rebels," explained Sherlock.

"How?" This time Q joined in the unanimous chorus of questioners.

"He's going to flood the Underground with water from the Thames before the bomb can go off. Without the required heat, a nuclear meltdown cannot happen – and without some kind of warning, the rebels will be drowned! We have to stop him. We need those terrorists alive, or the information they possess will be lost forever."

What he didn't say was that he needed  _John_  alive.

From the other end of the line, there was nothing but a stunned silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Production Notes:**
> 
> **Q from MI6.**
> 
> I love Sherlock/Skyfall crossovers, and I particularly loved Q in Skyfall. I really can see Q and Sherlock getting along like a computer on fire. I've deliberately kept Q's background vague during this story – I won't say what his precise relationship to Sherlock is, because that comes in the sequel.
> 
> **Nuclear Meltdown vs Nuclear Explosion.**
> 
> Powerstations with nuclear material in tend not to explode per se as a nuclear bomb would. The main danger is a radioactive leak if the core containing the nuclear material melts. Firstly if you are unlikely, there may be a kind of explosion due to compressed water vapour mixed in with the leaked radioactive substance. This can escape as a cloud of toxic water vapour and enter the water cycle. Otherwise if the radioactive material enters the water table underground it will automatically end up in the water cycle. This can pollute the entire eco-system and make an area uninhabitable for decades. Normally powerstations are built in remote areas – people don't want it near their homes but in this case the residents of London have no idea it exists. Radiation damages the genetic material of all living things – primarily through DNA breaks. Massive acute exposure leads to radiation poisoning and you die horribly. More sinisterly there is an increased risk of congenital birth defects and cancer of all types including very unusual ones.
> 
> Please take the time to write a few words, tell me what you thought, even if you feel like stabbing me with a pitchfork.


	13. Immense

 

 

 

 

* * *

**Chapter 13 - Immense**

* * *

 

John was sitting alone in the Underground tunnels, just out of sight of the Euston Station platform. He enjoyed the peaceful darkness, broken only by the small auxiliary lights placed high up on the tunnel walls. In this serene place, John could devote himself to his thoughts. Very soon the world was going to change beyond recognition, and perhaps John wouldn't have the chance to sit and enjoy this familiar calm anymore.

His thoughts were a jumbled mix of apprehension and excitement. Once the government was overthrown, John could go to the surface as much as he pleased. He could search for his family and visit Hoot's previous owners. He could spend more time with Dr Sigerson and Erin Watts. He could go swimming and roll on the grass. The possibilities were endless.

John's reverie, however, was soon disturbed by the sound of footsteps in the distance. They were not the heavy footfalls of military boots, but the soft, subtle, and somehow sinister crunch of an unfamiliar tread.

"Hello, John," said a soft, lilting voice. "I was wondering where you'd got to."

John looked up cautiously at the man approaching him. It was  _Jim_. The odd little man was wearing an immaculate blue suit with matching tie, and shiny black shoes that had been polished to perfection.

"Hello," muttered John apprehensively. He didn't know what this strange man wanted from him. As far as John knew, Jim was also helping out with the operation, but in a different capacity. When he'd pushed Seb further on the issue, John had been met with a blank wall of silence. Secretly, he was quite glad that he had been ordered to work with Dr Sigerson, rather than with this strange, menacing man.

"I heard from Seb that you were here all alone," said Jim, with a false tone of concern in his voice. John looked away and tried not to make eye contact. Jim's eyes frightened him: they were black pits, empty of life. It was like looking into the darkness of space, but without the pin-pricks of starlight.

"You can talk to me, you know."

John forgot all about Jim's eyes and turned to look at him in surprise.

"About what?"

"I know what it's like to be alone in the world, John," said Jim, taking a seat beside him and leaning in far too close for John's comfort.

"I'm not alone," protested John, getting the odd sensation that he didn't really want to hear what was coming next.

"Oh…oh, but you are, my boy: no family, no friends, no one to really care for you."

"I've got my platoon – I've got Murray and Slightly and Zero!"

Jim smiled, but his eyes remained cold and dark, as if no warmth could ever touch those black orbs.

"You understand, don't you?" asked Jim, sounding terribly sad. "They're jealous of you, John – terribly jealous, even though Murray and Slightly are better at hiding it than Zero."

John was amazed that Jim, who had only turned up the day before, could know so much about his squad.

"That's not true," said John, even though a nasty, sinister voice at the back of his mind suggested that it  _was_.

"And Seb…he doesn't have much time for you, does he?" continued Jim as he picked up a stray stone and tossed it at the wall. "He's never bothered to hug you or pat your back. He doesn't stick up for you when you're unfairly punished."

John stared at this man, wondering why he was saying such hurtful things. It was true that Seb was busy, but he still  _cared_  about John. And while it was also true that Seb had never stopped him from being whipped, that was because he couldn't overrule his superiors.

"He does care about you," said Jim immediately, almost as if he had read John's mind, "but he doesn't do very much about it, does he? A real father would spend time with you, doing what you wanted. A real father would care about your feelings, and not just how well you can complete a mission."

"But…." John wanted to object, but he couldn't think of anything to say. From what he read in the storybooks, Jim was completely correct.

"Seb cares about you, but he's not father  _material_ ," explained Jim in what John thought was supposed to be a kind tone. Instead, it made him feel terribly uncomfortable. "Wouldn't it be nice to have a real family?"

John kept his eyes fixed on the dust and gravel that covered the disused train tracks, feeling confused and anxious. Seb had assured him that Jim was a  _good_  man – someone who would help them achieve their goals, a vital part of their complex operation – but John simply couldn't bring himself to trust the man, with his cold smile and soulless eyes. He wanted to just get up and run away as far and as fast as he could, but Seb had told him to respect Jim, so an abrupt departure was out of the question.

"I guess," muttered John, fidgeting nervously with the loose threads on his uniform. He'd stored the new clothes Sherlock had bought him safely away in his sleeping bag: such fine clothes were not meant for the dirt and grime of the Underground. John planned to wear them to meet his family, if he ever found them.

"I suppose you have no idea who your family are," continued Jim, his tone dripping with over-zealous concern. "You see, John, this is why I came to talk to you." John froze momentarily, the loose thread from his trouser leg wound tightly around one finger. "I wanted to tell you that I have information about your family…your  _real_ family."

 

 

* * *

 

 

It took Sherlock nearly five minutes of speed-talking to explain how he had come to his conclusion. First, John's disclosure that there was a power station in the Underground; second, Irene's deduction that it had to be nuclear-powered; third, their discovery of supporting documents in Mycroft's office; and finally, the blueprint from Thames Water. Halfway through Sherlock's rapid-fire rendition, Lestrade had to answer a phone call, much to Sherlock's disgruntlement, but the Section D chief returned within moments and calmly listened to the rest of his soliloquy before agreeing to help.

Dimmock and Gregson were less than enthusiastic, but Lestrade appeared to be convinced by Sherlock's reasoning. He voiced his agreement that they couldn't allow the government to cover up the existence of the terrorist cell by obliterating the evidence. They needed to take the rebels alive and gather intelligence on their operations. The captives could provide a veritable gold mine of information that would possibly lead to the discovery of other, as yet unknown, cells.

_The country,_  Lestrade had said passionately,  _would not be safe if they didn't foil Mycroft's plan, and their duty as MI5 officers was to their country_ –  _not to Mycroft Holmes._

It was a very rousing short speech, which reminded Sherlock of just why Lestrade had become the head of Section D, and why he commanded the respect of both his subordinates and his superiors. What Lestrade tactfully didn't mention was Sherlock's own personal motive for stopping Mycroft: he wanted to save  _John._

The small group spent a good deal of time discussing the actual plan of attack – and how, exactly, to round up three hundred special operatives – before Lestrade, Gregson and Dimmock disappeared to brief their officers.

When Sherlock finally tore his eyes away from the speakerphone on the bland wooden desk, he saw that both Q and Irene were staring at him as if he might spontaneously combust.

"What?"

"You couldn't have given us a little warning before spilling the beans?" said Q.

"This was a more economical use of time; I didn't want to have to say everything  _twice_."

Irene shook her head as if to clear her mind, and then stood up purposefully. "I need to get changed," she said, ever the pragmatic spy.

"There are some jumpsuits for lab techs in the cupboard on your right," replied Q helpfully, "and the toilets are outside, two doors down on the left."

They watched in silence as Irene strode out of the room with a blue mechanic's jumpsuit in one hand and the grappling hook she'd had hidden under her ball gown in the other.

"There's a bathroom directly off this office," observed Sherlock quietly, "behind the screen in the left corner."

"I needed to get you alone," admitted Q, his eyes darting about nervously, as if he was expecting invisible spies to come crawling out of the woodwork. "I suppose there'll never be a good time to tell you this, but…." He hesitated and nervously pushed his glasses up his nose. Q had always been a reserved and controlled person; his blatantly agitated state was not a good sign, and Sherlock felt the nasty sensation of fear start to creep up his spine. "That stillbirth certificate you had me dig up…. I discovered yesterday when I retraced my hacking code that I'd missed something…."

"Go on," growled Sherlock.

Q took a deep breath and blurted out his next words.

"Basically, someone got there before me and altered the  _birth_  certificate to a  _stillbirth_  certificate. It was professionally done – I only found pieces of the original file under layers of data debris." He pulled out a small piece of A5 paper, half of which was completely blank. "There's no death certificate that matches this name and this date of birth. I think…there is every chance the baby –  _child_  – might still be  _alive_."

The words hit Sherlock like a physical blow, and he had to grip the edge of the desk to steady himself.

"You're right," he muttered shakily. "There wasn't ever going to be a  _right_  time to tell me this."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Three hours later, Lestrade had managed to gather all of his team. Gregson had done just as well, and Dimmock had miraculously managed to round up three hundred special ops soldiers in their civilian outfits. Ten bland-looking vans were now parked unobtrusively in various side streets around Westminster, while twenty others had been dispatched to King's Cross and Euston. The heavy pedestrian traffic around the Westminster area would disguise the sheer numbers involved in this operation, and each unit of special ops had been ordered to arrive at its Underground station separately.

Deliberately foiling Mycroft Holmes' plans was not something Lestrade ever thought he would have to do, but here he was, standing in the middle of London with a huge, unauthorised team of MI5 agents. He checked his phone and re-read the text message he had received half an hour ago during his conversation with Sherlock.  _Sugarhorse_  was the ID displayed prominently on his phone, and one word he'd never thought he'd see – but today was turning out to be a string of nasty surprises.

_Ours not to reason why_ , he thought grimly,  _ours is but to do and die._

The partially-concealed causeway leading to the entrance of the Westminster Underground station was littered with debris and a few yellowing leaves, heralding the early arrival of autumn. Clueless pedestrians walked and chattered noisily above them like a never-ending flock of migrating birds.

Sherlock was standing in the shadow of the great metal gates that sealed the entrance, his expression unreadable. Beside him, Irene was standing rigidly in a standard-issue jumpsuit, her wavy, flowing hair tied in a ruthlessly sleek bun.

"Well, it's a good thing we brought a proper battering ram," muttered Dimmock as he eyed the huge sheets of metal that towered before them.

"No need," said Sherlock as he pulled one door open. "We don't have time to lose."

Lestrade couldn't help but smile at Sherlock's amazing ability to get into places he really shouldn't.

"You do realise we are effectively going in  _blind,_  and if your plan doesn't work out, we're all  _dead_?" said Dimmock bluntly.

"Then you'd better hope I'm as smart as I think I am," replied Sherlock dryly.

 

 

* * *

 

 

What was left of Westminster Station was covered in a deep, stubborn layer of dust that refused to be disturbed even as numerous pairs of thick military boots stealthily moved through the wide, deserted corridors that had once seen the passage of millions of commuters. Only the light from torches affixed to the fronts of rifles illuminated the way forward. The vanguard of their operation had already moved into the dark tunnels, scanning for and disabling all surveillance devices.

Suddenly the great booming blast of an explosion rocked through the deserted platform, almost knocking Lestrade off his feet and sending several other officers collapsing on top of each other.

"Lestrade!" cried Sally, pushing her way through the throng of agents and grabbing her boss' arm to steady him. He leant into her supporting grip and tried to smile reassuringly, but it turned into a grimace.

"That would be the booby traps," he muttered grimly. "What's the damage, Anderson?"

Anderson arrived from the opposite direction with a state-of-the-art radio communication set strapped to his waist. "It's alright, sir, just a controlled explosion by the special ops guys – no one's hurt."

"Have our communications been picked up yet?" asked Lestrade, a semblance of calm returning to his mind.

"As far as I can tell, someone is piggybacking on our frequency, so our position is known and our communiqués are being monitored."

"Thank goodness for that," muttered Sally as she started to shepherd Jo Portman and Callum Wood off the platform and into the tunnels. "I was thinking we'd actually all drown down here when the sluices were opened."

"What makes you think Mycroft Holmes isn't going to open them anyway, even though he knows we're down here?" asked Anderson cynically.

"Shut up, both of you," groaned Lestrade as he holstered his gun for a moment to have both his hands free so he could climb down off the platform. As he stepped down onto the abandoned railway line, he could see the torches of the special ops team darting like fireflies far in the distance, their light slightly distorted by the slowly dissipating cloud of dust and smoke. Sherlock was somewhere in front – probably right at the front, shouting instructions at the special operatives and getting himself covered in every type of grime available. Although Lestrade had never believed Sherlock belonged in MI5, it would be a lie to say that he hadn't missed working with that whirlwind of energy and dazzling genius.

_Just like old times,_  thought Lestrade, and found a curious sense of comfort in the idea.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock tried desperately to remain focused on the task at hand. The controlled explosion had spewed forth a huge cloud of grey dust, most of which Sherlock felt he had personally inhaled. He spluttered and wiped his face as best he could with the sleeve of his dinner jacket, which was now ruined beyond repair. He holstered his gun for a moment while he furiously scrubbed the dust from around his nostrils with both hands. The weapon felt odd, pressed against his left hip. He hadn't carried a weapon for the last two years, after being thrown out of the Service, and now he was uncomfortable with the cold, hard weapon.

When he finally regained his composure, his mind still refused to obey instructions. Not for the first time, the tight control he had over his emotions deserted him.

_There is every chance the baby –_ child _– might still be_ alive _._

Q's words haunted him like a living nightmare or an obsessive fantasy: it was hard to know which, in a stormy sea of confused sensations. He might be a  _father_  – the thought both terrified and exhilarated him, and his mind refused to stop analysing all the possible implications.

_Where was his child? What had happened to him? Who had orchestrated the cruel scheme to keep Sherlock from knowing his only son?_

The questions and associated emotions were clouding his logical faculties and slowing his responses like a haze-inducing drug. It was dangerous and irresponsible to be thinking about this during the mission, but Sherlock's psyche refused to obey his commands.

Suddenly someone grabbed his arm in the semi-darkness and he reacted reflexively by sliding out of the grip.

"Sherlock."

It was Irene's voice, just inches from his ear, and yet Sherlock hadn't even realised she'd approached him through the small throng of special operatives. In the dim, darting lights of the ever-moving torches he saw that her expression was one of deep concern.

"Your mind is not on this mission," she hissed so quietly that only they could hear. "What's going on?"

He stared blankly at her, unable to tell the truth and even more unable to fabricate a lie under her unwavering gaze. He could feel cold beads of sweat breaking out across his forehead, and his mouth started to feel like a sun-baked desert.

"Case Officer Adler," someone called from in front of them, "the service door to our right is heavily protected. Do you want us to investigate?"

Irene glanced at Sherlock and he nodded vaguely, his mind still trapped in a hinterland of doubt and fear but also  _joy_ , an uncontrollable exhilarating joy that seemed to take on a life of its own. With that joy there came the uplifting feeling of hope, illuminating the world that was so filled with darkness.

_If his child was alive…._

He couldn't finish the thought: it led down a road he didn't have the courage to travel. If he truly became emotionally invested in the idea of  _being a father_ , it would leave him utterly dependent on pure speculation, his hopes and dreams pinned on something that might be no more than the desperate fantasy of a man wanting to make up for the past.

"Do it," ordered Irene, and the dedicated unit of special ops rushed to surround the booby-trapped door. Three minutes later, which was slightly longer than their usual disarming processes, the partially-hidden door had been blasted open, the wired explosives disarmed and the laser sensors disabled.

"How's Gregson doing at Euston?" echoed Lestrade's booming voice behind them. Someone gave him an almost inaudible answer and the section chief appeared satisfied. "Right, the base has been cleared, Sherlock!" cried Lestrade. "Eleven dead – amongst them, three boys."

Sherlock froze, his heart suddenly seizing in horror and all previous thoughts dissolving into one screaming voice:  _John_.

"John Watson's not there," continued Lestrade's voice, which was getting louder as he sprinted towards them, "but we don't know where he is. The forty-three captives they caught haven't said a word."

Relief was immense, as if the weight of the world had abruptly lifted from his shoulders and Sherlock could simply float away.  _John was still alive._

With his body on autopilot, Sherlock found himself walking through a hole blasted into metal. Only as he entered did he observe just how thick and shiny the door had been. In a moment of returning clarity, he understood that they were at least on the right track. Behind the door was a long, low, claustrophobia-inducing tunnel, delving deep into the bedrock under London. It was completely dark, the torchlight from the special ops unit having disappeared from view around the bend. The floor was uneven at first, but this gave way to a rough set of stairs. Finally, after what felt like an eternity in darkness, Sherlock saw a dim, white light in the distance, outlining the figure of Irene running a few metres ahead of him.

The sight that greeted him as he emerged from the narrow tunnel confirmed all his suspicions.

The vanguard and Irene were crowded onto a small metal platform overlooking a gigantic cavern carved out of the deep-red sandstone* beneath them. A vast network of cables, ventilation openings, and lights were fixed to the uneven ceiling, illuminating enough of the cavern to give Sherlock an idea of its size. It was an enormous space, extending down into the earth for over a hundred metres and spreading so far in all other directions that the walls of the cavern were no longer visible.

"Oh my god," whispered one of the special ops men. The light from his torch was no longer visible under the harsh glare of the overhead lights. He was staring at the centrepiece below them: an ugly, immense complex of cooling towers and pipes –  _the nuclear power station_.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *According to my geologist friends red sandstone is actually what constitutes much of the bedrock underneath London.
> 
>  
> 
> **Production Notes:**
> 
>  
> 
> The LRA and Child Soldiers
> 
> The biggest difficulty in writing this story was tackling the fact that despite spending his entire life in a terrorist cell and John could still be incredibly sweet and innocent. John's back story is only hinted at in the story and even though he was both physically abused and exploited, I do not think that the Rebels should be seen as complete villains. As Sherlock said, if they hadn't taken John in, he would have died in the abandon tube station as an infant. The LRA are certainly not a charity for orphans but they have taken in and "cared for" several children who would otherwise have been worse off. The LRA provides stability, and a sense of belonging, a purpose in life and certain role models to look up to. This is probably much more than many abused children and teenagers have in their home environment. I personally understand why some children would even prefer to say within a military organisation particularly if they believe that they chose to join.
> 
> I personally see the "rescue" of runaway and abandoned children as morally ambiguous. Had they really been ruthless, they would have simply executed the runaway children who stumbled upon the Underground. The use of child soldiers is horrendous and unforgivable but at least these children are alive, and they do owe their lives to the LRA.
> 
> **Author's Note** : As for the revelations in this chapter: I wanted readers to experience Sherlock's reactions in something resembling real time. He doesn't really get much time to think about it or deal with his emotions because so many things are happening at the same time. Sherlock is basically emotionally compromised at this point and even though he doesn't display it overtly, he is not his usual rational self.
> 
> I assume you all know by know I love convoluted plots that drive readers to distraction, so you know it's not going to be straight-fowards. I can only say, please keep reading all will be explained in the finale and its well worth waiting for. Chapter 13 is officially the beginning of the end!
> 
> **Please take the time to leave a review, feedback is very important to me and the only way I know that people like/loathe this story.**


	14. Safe

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Chapter 14 - Safe**

* * *

The whole of Section D, fifty special ops troops and the explosives disposal unit crowded around Lestrade as they stood on the red sandstone floor looking up at the huge, humming concrete structure before them. Eyeing the bewildering complex dubiously, the section chief spoke to no one in particular. "That's a bloody great set of works to toss a monkey wrench into. Where the hell do we start looking for it?"

Somewhere at the back of the crowd, a long, pale arm shot up and Irene manoeuvred to see the person it belonged to. It was the young, as yet nameless, lieutenant who had prompted her to realise there was more to the rebel plot than she thought.

"Sir! To the best of my knowledge, the most efficient way to cause a nuclear meltdown is to stop the circulation of cold water to the reactor core. The heat produced by the nuclear reaction will stop being transferred to the water and thus build up inside the reactor, eventually causing the uranium cores to melt. The liquid uranium will effectively burn its way out of the fuel cells and react with any residual water still in the system to create an explosion that has the potential to blow this entire cavern apart. The uranium combined with water vapour will be blown into the atmosphere and spread as a radioactive cloud throughout Western Europe. Once uranium enters the water cycle it has the potential to contaminate any water source, making many places almost uninhabitable."

Lestrade somehow managed to look both irritated and impressed at the same time by the young man's monologue. However, he'd never been one to hide his own ignorance, and he heartily accepted the younger officer's explanation. If heat was the ultimate culprit in causing a nuclear meltdown, then Mycroft Holmes' plan of flooding the Underground was completely logical. Disarming the nuclear threat and wiping out all the rebels in one move was convenient, if exceptionally ruthless.

"So what are we looking for and how do we reverse it?" he asked.

"Sir! The absence of any steam from the cooling towers and the presence of fan-equipped ventilation ducts in the roof indicate that the cooling towers have become non-functional. However, the noise coming from the actual turbine generator appears to be stable and constant, which means that someone has only recently turned off the cold water supply to the cooling towers, and the power station is still functional."

"All right, bright-eyes," responded Lestrade, "then make this bloody thing function again!"

"Engineers with me," ordered the young lieutenant as a group of equally-young men and women hastily grabbed their specialist gear, packed into civilian rucksacks, and rushed towards what Irene thought was the control room.

"Alright, you lot," said Lestrade pointing at everyone else, "spread out and look for explosives or detonator controls. Just because they've used the off switch doesn't mean they haven't left a few chunks of Semtex lying about as insurance."

The group quickly dissolved, leaving only Lestrade, Sally, and Anderson standing in the shadows of the three cylindrical cooling towers, which towered above them like abominable fingers clawing their way to the surface.

"Boss," said Anderson quietly, handing him a wireless earpiece that would connect him to the communications equipment, " _Sugarhorse_  is on the line."

Lestrade looked around hastily to make sure that they were truly alone before placing the earpiece in his left ear and listening attentively to the message. It reiterated the plan and confirmed to Lestrade that he was still on schedule.

 _So far, so good_.

"Do we have to do anything?" asked Anderson anxiously as he packed away the radio equipment.

Lestrade analysed the message in his head for a moment longer before replying. "If you see Sherlock hightailing it away, make sure no one stops him or follows him," he ordered calmly.

Sally frowned, clearly uncomfortable with the cryptic instructions, and with allowing Sherlock operational freedom. "You sure that's wise, boss?"

"Don't question my orders, Donovan," replied Lestrade gruffly.

 

* * *

The discovery of the power station had served to refocus Sherlock's intellectual energies. The immense, solid, palpable proof that his deductions were right had made the potentially grave consequences of his inattention all the more real. Lives were hanging in the balance – Irene's, John's, even Lestrade's – but his role was not to prevent a nuclear meltdown or disarm terrorists. The twists and turns of the last few weeks all hinged on this one pivotal moment.

Moriarty was  _here;_  Sherlock could almost sense his nemesis in the charged atmosphere. The cunning spider had finally finished weaving its web of intrigue, and now it was waiting silently, patiently for the grand finale.

Sherlock started to scrutinise the ground, looking for any clues, any breadcrumbs the master of deception would have laid down to lure him into the trap. He had to be discreet because if Irene or Lestrade should discover what his plans really were, they would physically haul him back to the surface in handcuffs.

Suddenly, as he approached the back wall of the cavern – the power station looking much less intimidating in the distance behind him – he saw the first clue: the tattered front page of a book lying partially hidden in a rock crevice. It took him a few moments to work the paper free without tearing it.

_Grimm's Fairy Tales._

It was an old edition, with black and white pictures of small children, wolves, and magical creatures. At the back of his mind he felt the nagging sensation that he had seen this particular cover before, quite recently.

_What was Moriarty playing at?_

The answer struck like a lightning bolt, paralysing Sherlock and almost stopping his heart. The breath he had been taking suddenly ceased and his ribcage fluttered ineffectively as he gasped for air.

 _John – it was_ John's _book._

As clear as day, the various pieces of the puzzle suddenly fitted together in his mind, producing a perfect, chilling picture of how he had been manipulated. John was the linchpin of Moriarty's plan, not just some brainwashed monkey trained to pull a trigger. Moriarty had ordered the LRA to allow Sherlock in  _to meet John_ , to become attached to the boy. It was all part of the greater plan, not stupidity on the part of the rebels, and in his blinding arrogance Sherlock had failed to see this. Moriarty must have orchestrated the entire incident with the drone so that Mycroft would be confronted with evidence of the rebel base in the Underground. The devious criminal knew exactly who the British Government would approach on such a sensitive matter:  _Sherlock._

The obsessive psychopath had thrown a valuable terrorist cell away just to get Sherlock where he wanted him. The nuclear explosion, the EMP device, they were nothing but interesting sideshows to lure Sherlock into Moriarty's intricately-laid trap.

_But why kidnap John? Why was John the linchpin to Moriarty's plans? He was just a boy whom Sherlock had befriended…._

The answer came to him not in a thunderous epiphany, but quietly emerging from his subconscious mind like a light shining through the fog. It had been there all along, Sherlock had merely refused to see it. He had instinctively  _known_  from the first moment he laid eyes on the boy's picture. Fair hair and dark blue eyes like John's were a recurring feature in the Holmes family portraits, and Irene's mother…she had been just has fair as John.* Sherlock simply hadn't allowed himself to even  _think_  along those lines because he was afraid, terrified even, of the emotional vulnerability the  _truth_ would bring.

_John was his son…._

At the sound of those four words, voiced inside his mind, Sherlock's world abruptly shattered. Everything he had once held as a sacred fact dissipated like morning mist in the sunlight, and as the fog lifted before his eyes, he found he could finally  _see_. The child he thought he would never have a chance to meet, the child he had thought he'd lost forever, had been standing right before him:  _entire and whole and_   _perfect_.

The denial that had encased his mind suddenly vanished and along with it, a decade of regret and pain. In its place came a wonderfully warm sensation, growing more intense by the second until it became a fierce heat, setting his heart alight. The emotion was at once raw and so passionately joyful that Sherlock couldn't logically define it – he could only  _feel,_ and the feeling liberated him. He could sense the weight of the past burning away, and from its ashes a phoenix of hope was rising: a beautiful vision of the future unclouded by what had come before.

_He had a son._

The intense flash of joy was short-lived, as Sherlock's logical faculties abruptly reminded him that his child was now in the hands of a ruthless, psychopathic villain. The thought suddenly pulled Sherlock down from the height of euphoria and slammed him back to earth. The violent interruption of his epiphany dimmed his heightened emotions but did not extinguish the newly-burning fire within his heart. For the first time, Sherlock found his mind and his feelings acting in fantastic harmony, a feat he had previously thought impossible. The joy and fierce protectiveness in his heart focused his mind and marshalled his thoughts more efficiently than years of cold detachment had ever achieved. Moriarty had foolishly thought the revelation would break him and Sherlock would become emotionally incapacitated, but he was wrong.

In his arrogance, Sherlock had allowed John to be led blindly forward like a lamb to the slaughter, but he was going make this right.

 _Face the wall,_  the spiky black handwriting on the inside of the cover read,  _turn left, and follow the wall until you come to the first stalagmite._

The instructions reminded Sherlock of the treasure hunts he used to conduct in the grounds of his family home with his sister, amidst the rose bushes and topiary, and under the great oak tree. He pushed the strange sense of poignancy from his mind – those days were long gone and never to return, but he had a brighter future to look forward to with Irene _and John._

Behind the yellow stalagmite was something Sherlock hadn't expected to find: a wireless earpiece.

At first, the only noise assaulting his ear drum was the hissing static from a bad connection, but it stopped after a few seconds, leaving a ringing sensation in Sherlock's left ear. Then a voice he had been praying he wouldn't hear crackled over the earpiece:

"Hello…Sherlock," whimpered the voice, "how – how nice to be able to t-talk to you…again. Do you like my new v-voice?"

" _John!_ " cried Sherlock before he could stop himself, his heart once again pounding away in his chest as if it wanted to jump out and rescue John even more than the rest of his shaking body. Sherlock was utterly unprepared for the intense emotion that overcame him. The sound of his son's voice so broken and desperate felt like a physical blow.

"I-It's not John, Sherlock. It's me…Jim Moriarty. …Hiiiii!"

The last word was an awkward wail and, from the snuffling sounds interrupting the silence that followed, John was crying.

"You bastard!" snarled Sherlock, his hands curling into futile fists, unable to control his own anguish. "What do you want?"

"Look in front of you…Sherlock…there's a door – climb up the steps…there is a cart waiting for you on the tracks. I suggest you move quickly, because l-little J-Johnny won't keep for long."

The connection was abruptly cut, and Sherlock felt the strength drain from his legs. He crumpled to the ground, only vaguely aware of the pain in his knees, the clatter of his gun against the cavern floor, and the red dust flowing up in a small plume before settling down to rest on his ruined black trousers.

 

* * *

 

How Sherlock managed to drag his fractured mind and aching body out of the cavern and into the empty cart on the deserted railway line, he would probably never know, but deep underneath the paralysing fear and wretched despair there was still the burning resolve: a reservoir of mental conviction and physical strength that had seen him through the most torturous of times and would see him through  _this_. Even as the cart jolted along the uneven tracks, shaking his bones, Sherlock felt the hidden force beginning to coalesce, focusing his mind and supporting his body. He was  _not_ going to give in to despair, because John's life hung in the balance. He would save his son and destroy Moriarty, one way or another.

When the cart came to a programmed stop, Sherlock saw in its dim headlights the outline of double doors in the bend of the tunnel before him. He quickly clambered out, shaking the excess dust from his dinner jacket, which had turned a dull shade of grey. His acute sense of direction told him that the track had taken him in a full circle, and he had not travelled far from his original position.

He stopped a few paces away from the doors, calming his body and honing his mind. Moriarty – the elusive, scheming quarry he had chased for the last ten years – was inside, waiting.

_"Will you step into my parlour?" said the Spider to the Fly…._

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock pushed against the join of the two metal doors, and they swung open silently on well-oiled hinges.

At first his eyes were dazzled by the brightness, but as they adjusted, he could see that the room contained a large, rectangular pool of water, glistening under lights fixed to the ceiling like a teeming mass of diamonds. Standing alone on the wide, blue-tiled causeway running around the pool was  _John_ : his real, whole, and  _perfect_ son.

Sherlock suppressed the urge to run towards him, to grab him and hold him tightly to his chest. He could feel Moriarty's dark presence draping itself over the scene, spreading its noxious influence into every corner of the room.

A door at the far end of room slowly creaked open, and Sherlock finally saw the face of his nemesis staring back him, illuminated by the dancing light reflecting off the water's surface.

"I left you my number," said the low lilting voice, "I thought you might call...or didn't you see the numbers tattooed onto that homeless vagrant's eyes?"

Sherlock felt physical repulsion at the image of the Ruby's bright blue eyes covered with the tiny, spiderlike, black numbers his imagination conjured, but he refused to respond. Instead, Sherlock started to walk forward towards a silent, trembling John. As he approached, he saw that his son was wearing the clothes he had bought the child for his trip to see Irene. They still looked brand new – John had taken care to fold them correctly so that no unsightly wrinkles would mar his favourite clothes.

"It's going to be okay, John," said Sherlock calmly as he came to a halt a few metres away from John. He could see that his child had been crying: red blotches marred his usually pale complexion.

"Oh look, Johnny, daddy's come to save you," said Jim jovially as he too came to a halt a few metres behind John, so that he and Sherlock stood like mirror images of each other, in perfect balance.

The cold, inhuman eyes that had haunted Sherlock's dreams were staring at him with depraved greed, as if the monster before him couldn't wait to devour Sherlock whole.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked, keeping his voice low and level. He stared straight back at his long-time nemesis, refusing to be intimidated by the dark, soulless pits where human eyes should be.

"Oh, this and that," replied Jim, sticking out his lower lip in a grotesque parody of nonchalance. He started to walk closer to John, who had remained frozen between them like a fulcrum. Sherlock stepped forward likewise, until they were just steps apart, eyeing each other over the top of John's head.

"What?" demanded Sherlock again, mentally calculating how best to manoeuvre John behind him. He still had the standard issue Security Services gun in his left pocket and Moriarty appeared to be unarmed, but Sherlock knew the man must have something else even more deadly up his sleeve.

"You mean you haven't worked it out yet?" asked Jim, looking sadistically delighted. "The great Sherlock Holmes can't even see what's been  _right under his nose!_ " The unstable mastermind imbued the last four words with such a sudden, vicious fury that Sherlock almost took a step back in surprise. Alarm flashed through his mind – he was still missing something vital, and Moriarty had the upper hand.

The ugly fury disappeared as quickly as the glare from a bolt of lightning, and Moriarty's face re-formed itself into a human mask once more.

"Oh, dearie me, Sherlock. How  _disappointing_ …," hissed Jim, suddenly lurching forward and grabbing John by the shoulders. Sherlock reacted too late, and Jim dragged the boy away from his outstretched arms like a spider clutching its prey. It was utterly repulsive to see the monster's claws digging into his son's shoulders, and Sherlock felt a tide of darkness rising in him.  _He wanted to cut those fingers off one by one and watch Moriarty scream_. The thought was highly disturbing – almost a distorted reflection of Moriarty's own evil – and Sherlock quickly dispelled the idea, focusing instead on  _John_.

Moriarty must have seen Sherlock's murderous thoughts, because his coal black eyes suddenly lit up with unholy glee.

"Didn't I tell you," said Jim, lowering his monstrous gaze to John's terrified face, "your daddy is not an angel…he's  _me._  We are just alike, we are  _reflections_  of each other…."

The last sentence was directed as much to Sherlock as it was to the shaking child held between them like a hostage. Sherlock tried analysing all the information he had accumulated over a decade of chasing Moriarty, but overwhelming anxiety for John was clouding his thoughts. His logical faculties dissolved as fear curled an icy claw around his heart. Moriarty's plan could not be as simple as to stand here and taunt Sherlock in front of his son, but Moriarty was  _here_  and  _alone_ , which meant that for the moment they were physically safe.

"Still haven't figured it out?" asked Jim smoothly. "Shall I spell it out to him?" he whispered conspiringly into John's ear, causing the child to flinch. "Shall I tell him the  _truth?_ "

"Tell me what?" asked Sherlock, his instincts unequivocally telling him that Moriarty's  _truth_  was not something he wanted to hear.

"Sherlock – so brilliant and yet so astonishingly stupid," continued Jim with twisted affection. "Only you could blunder around for so long, stumbling over the edges of this plan without even coming close to figuring it out. You think you're safe right now because I'm here with you  _all alone?_ "

Moriarty paused and gazed silently at him, his claw-like hands digging into John's shoulders.

Sherlock stared back at Jim's expectant face, his mind still not able to fully comprehend what was happening before his eyes. For once in his life, Sherlock realised what it felt like to be  _slow_ , to be so far behind someone else that you were left in the proverbial dust of his racing thoughts. He couldn't understand the hidden meaning behind Jim's taunting words, and yet he knew there was a meaning dangling just beyond the reach of his suddenly-limited mental faculties.

"You're not  _safe_ ," snarled Jim, his voice becoming a low, animalistic growl. "You're going to die down here – we're  _both_  going to die down here – because, Sherlock, I promised to burn the heart out of you, but there is no point in living if there's no-one left to play the game…."

Moriarty's left hand disappeared into the breast pocket of his tailored suit and for a split second Sherlock almost believed he was going to pull out a gun. Instead Moriarty produced a small wireless detonator and silently pointed to the ceiling.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **AN:** *Remember back at the Holmes ancestral mansion – Irene was looking at those family portraits and the blonde genes that kept cropping up every so often? Mendelian genetics for you.
> 
>  
> 
> **Production Notes:**
> 
>  
> 
> Sherlock is being bombarded with emotional stimuli that he's probably never had the joy/pain of experiencing before. There is a very visceral reaction for parents when their child is in danger – almost a biological imperative that overrides the logical faculties. You don't calculate the speed of the car that is about to run over your child, you just dive in to save them.
> 
> The finale(s) will be very emotionally charged so it's worth waiting for and there is as always more twists to come at the end.


	15. Burn

 

****

**Chapter 15 - Safe**

* * *

Irene was greatly relieved that they were still inhaling lungfuls of stale air rather than murky Thames water, even though every passing moment brought them closer to a nuclear meltdown. It appeared that either Mycroft knew they were down here, or he had simply not moved on to the "flooding the Underground" part of his schedule.

A search of the facilities inside the power station forced them to reach the nasty conclusion that the rebels had been operating this plant for a very long time. The monitoring equipment was outdated but in good order, and although there was no computer system, the LRA personnel had meticulously documented every reading they could perform. Special ops engineers had confirmed that the dial readings showed the cooling towers malfunctioning, but unfortunately they still hadn't figured out how to solve the problem.

Suddenly Jo Portman, a young, slender woman with short-cropped, fair hair, came running into the control room, her face a picture of joy. "Irene, they've found a way to prevent a meltdown!"

"How?" asked Irene, as she turned to glance back at the giant, clumsy metal control panel filled with knobs, buttons and flickering dials.

Jo looked slightly less enthusiastic about having to answer that question. "They're going to blow open the back wall of the cavern."

" _What?_ " Irene stared incredulously at Jo, wondering if the entire team had been seized by a sudden epidemic of madness.

"The engineers have scanned the back wall of the cavern: it's only a few metres thick, and the only thing separating the power station and the River Thames, where it gets its water supply. If they can turn off the turbine generator and flood the entire cavern, the reactor core will cool down before the separators melt, and we won't have to worry about a nuclear meltdown."

This plan was beginning to sound suspiciously like Mycroft's more grandiose plot to flood the entire Underground.

"Who came up with this idea?" demanded Irene, her eyes narrowing.

"Lestrade," replied Jo with a grin. "Our boss is pretty smart…and pretty desperate right now. He'll be giving an evacuation order very soon. We're all to retreat above ground – standard protocol. I thought I'd come give you the heads-up and help you grab anything you might want to save."

Irene thought for a moment and stuffed a pile of logbooks into Jo's arms before grabbing another pile herself. "Come on, let's get out of here," she said grimly.

 

* * *

 

"See anything, Anderson?" inquired Lestrade as they stopped together on the metal platform high above the cavern floor where they had first made their entrance. They were the last to leave the immense red cave, and Anderson was scouring the area with his infra-red binoculars.

"No," muttered Anderson quietly, "everyone's out."

"Good – let's get a move on."

By the time they had clambered swiftly up the long flight of steps into the disused railway, they were both out of breath. A special ops unit was still waiting at the entrance to the cavern with materials in hand to seal up the door and prevent the water from spilling into the rest of the Underground.

"You sure that's going to hold?" asked Lestrade one last time.

"Yes sir," replied one burly officer, not sounding irritated in the slightest.

Lestrade nodded and looked down the tunnel. Ahead, the main body of the team was sprinting towards Westminster Station, the fanned beams of torchlight jolting up and down as the special operatives ran. Lestrade took a few deep breaths and reluctantly started to chase after them. He wasn't as fit as he used to be; five years being confined to his office as section chief had not made him portly, but it had lowered his exercise tolerance considerably. Anderson, being a technical operative, hated exercise, and the two out-of-shape MI5 agents panted their way out of the Underground like a pair of rusted steam engines.

In the top level of Westminster Underground Station, Lestrade raised his hand to get everyone's attention. Over seventy people stood in the dirty, tiled passageway, but it had been built with a million commuters in mind, and they fitted tightly but comfortably.

"Head count," ordered Lestrade, and each team member shouted out their number sequentially.

When they reached seventy-two, Lestrade let out a sigh of relief and motioned for the large group to disband and regroup at the designated location. It would look highly suspicious to the public if a horde of dusty, dirty, sweating people came pouring out of a disused underground station. They would sneak out in threes and fours, blending into the crowds, remaining anonymous and elusive.

He leaned back against the cold, dirty wall and breathed easier. The mission was going exactly to plan; he had sent his private report off to  _Sugarhorse_ as soon as they had timed the explosives. He was quietly confident that his end of the mission would be accomplished without a glitch.

Suddenly a desperate cry rang out through the station, just as people were getting ready to leave.

"Sherlock!" Irene cried, causing all the operatives in the station to freeze. "Sherlock and I didn't have numbers, and he's not here!"

Anderson stared up at Lestrade from where he was kneeling by his equipment, as if waiting for his boss to say something, but Lestrade merely leaned against the tiles and exhaled slowly.

 _All_ had _been going to plan. It was too late to back out now._

* * *

 

"… _We're both going to die down here…."_

The solid red sandstone ceiling of the cavernous room was dotted with holes, and as Sherlock looked more closely he realised they'd been filled with plastic explosives. Thin black wires criss-crossed the ceiling like the intricate threads of a giant spider's web, linking all the explosives together to produce a bomb capable of burying the entire room with tonnes of rock.

"Get it now?" sneered the sickeningly snide voice of Jim Moriarty. "You're me, Sherlock, and we can't live without each other…you  _know_  that." Sherlock stared back, dumbfounded and horrified at the maniac standing before him. In response to his realisation, Jim's dark, soulless eyes lit up for one brief moment with a mad energy, producing a look so hideously wild that Sherlock found himself both awed and terrified. He had chased this man for ten years, and yet he had never quite realised just how  _insane_  Moriarty truly was. However, he composed himself: he didn't want John to lose faith in the father he had only just discovered.

"Yes, I do get it," replied Sherlock, boldly stepping forward. He directed his gaze at his son, looking into the boy's deep blue eyes and hoping that the child could see some of the overwhelming joy and… _love_  that he felt for John, hoping that it would calm the terror he was feeling right now. "It's going to be okay, John," he reiterated calmly.

Jim's face contorted into an ugly, violent expression when he saw that the results he had been hoping for simply did not materialise. The inhuman eyes flashed with a visceral hatred that seemed to spread through his expression like a noxious poison, twisting the muscles until the mask of sanity had completely vanished and the true face of the monster was revealed. " _It's not going to be okay!_ " screamed Jim, his high-pitched voice echoing around the large room like the thwarted cry of a malicious demon.

John let out a wail of fright as Moriarty's claw-like fingers closed around his neck in a vicious, choking grip.

Sherlock pulled out the gun from his pocket and levelled it slowly and deliberately at Jim's head. It was effectively an empty gesture: he couldn't shoot Moriarty before the man pressed the detonator, but Sherlock's mind and intellect were working at double capacity now – he had a plan, though it was not an easy one to implement.

Moriarty loosened his grip but didn't let go, his breathing ragged with the force of his brutal emotions.

"I don't believe you have the guts to press that detonator," replied Sherlock coldly, advancing towards his nemesis with his arm still outstretched. There was nothing more insulting to Moriarty than questioning his resolve, and the maniac was bound to respond on reflex.

True to form, he did.

"Look around you, Sherlock," hissed the monster as he retreated a few steps, dragging John with him. "This is the overflow reservoir from the Circle Line's draining system. When your darling brother floods the Underground, that pool will fill this entire room and we will all  _drown_. Oh, are you surprised I know? I've been spying on you. … _Spidercam_ , a lovely little invention of mine. Did you ever think to actually clear that cobweb from your ceiling, or check that the spider sitting in the centre of it was actually  _real?_ "*

Jim gave a high-pitched giggle that reverberated around the cavernous room. "It wasn't all that difficult to gain access to your dear brother's personal computer files, either. All this nuclear nonsense was just something to reel you in, Sherlock. It would have been nice if the nuclear meltdown did happen, but that wasn't the  _point_. Iplanned  _everything_  for this moment – for  _us."_

The sickeningly affectionate way in which Jim's tone caressed the last word sent an involuntary shudder down Sherlock's spine.

"And," continued Jim, "just in case Mycroft fails to deliver the flood, I've wired this entire room with enough explosives to bring down the ten metres of concrete above our heads." He waved the detonator between them, as if daring Sherlock to make a grab for it.

Jim smiled at Sherlock's undisguised shock – a bizarre, frightening look which perverted everything that a smile should be.

"Why?" asked Sherlock, resisting the urge to look up at the ceiling and thus betray his own growing fear. He needed to buy more time; he needed to get John away from Jim.

"I'm going to burn the  _heart_  out of you," said Jim, this time looking sadistically pleased. He patted John's shoulder with one hand to indicate just what he meant by heart. "I promised you that, didn't I? And I never go back on my promises. …Unlike some people I know."

He looked down at John again. The traumatised boy turned his head away defiantly as Jim lowered his face so that they were just inches apart.

"Look at your father, boy, look at the man who abandoned you as a baby, who threw you out like so much  _garbage_ ," he snarled, closely wrapping the long, spider-like fingers of his left hand around John's face, turning it forcibly toward his adversary. Sherlock felt a burning flare of anger and disgust at the monster touching his son in such an intimate way, but he quelled it almost instantly: the plan required his full attention. "He doesn't  _love_ you, John," continued Jim, thrusting his face forward until it was almost touching John's, "and he never will. You are nothing but a pawn in our little game."

"That's not true, John," countered Sherlock steadily. "I was made to believe that you died at birth; if I'd thought for a moment that you lived, I would not ever have stopped searching for you." He meant it, every single word, and he hoped that John could see the truth of those words in his expression. "I loved you from the moment I learnt of your existence, and I will never stop loving you."

John stared at him, his searching blue eyes boring deep into Sherlock's own pair – paler, but with a nerve and intensity to match his own.

"Oh, how swweeet," drawled Jim, his face a picture of overwhelming disgust, "but it's all lies! You altered the live birth certificate to a stillbirth to throw me off the scent,  _Sherlock_. He never wanted anyone to find you, Johnny boy,  _never._ "

Sherlock continued to look at John, half-fearing, half-expecting the boy to believe Moriarty. There was nothing that he could counter Jim's words with except to call him a liar, and that wouldn't be convincing. He couldn't bear the thought that what could potentially be his last moments with his son would be marred by distrust and betrayal.

However, to his surprise, John's terrified expression started to change. At first Sherlock wasn't sure what it was turning into, but when the new expression finally appeared it gave him hope beyond all his wildest dreams. John  _smiled_  at him – a tearful, trembling smile – and Sherlock knew then that his son understood, despite all the logical evidence to the contrary, that his father loved him.

Thwarted again, this time Moriarty did not explode with anger. "But I suppose it's more painful  _this_  way," he said pensively, "so close and yet so far…. Just think of all the wonderful father-son moments you two will never have…and think of all the warm family memories that Irene will never experience, either."

Moriarty sounded positively delighted with the prospect. His voice took on an insane sing-song quality. "Think how sad your poor darling mother will be when she's left all alone in the world, how she will sink into despair every time she sees a father with his son, how her heart will break every time she sees a boy hugging his mother."

He looked back up at Sherlock from his bent position over John, his body almost completely hidden behind the small boy's.

"I'll have my revenge, Sherlock, on you  _and_  Irene. You're going to die, but she will be  _destroyed_. Two birds with one stone." He physically shook John's shoulder. "Elegant, no?"

"You are still going to die, too," remarked Sherlock coolly, his gun remaining pointed at Moriarty's head even though it was currently leaning over John's shoulder. It was a futile gesture and they both knew it. There was no way he could shoot Jim without also killing John.

"Yes, but that's what I planned," explained Jim, sounding terribly exasperated all of a sudden. "Like I said before: with you gone, there will be no point in me living. Who would play the game with me?

"…Oh, but you think me  _mad?_ " hissed Jim, glaring up at Sherlock as if he had fallen short of expectation. "I once told you that we are halves of a whole, Sherlock. Do you really think that your life will have any meaning without  _me?_ "

Sherlock stared back at Jim's twisted expression, refusing to be intimidated and refusing to allow this demon the joy of knowing just how much of Sherlock's life had been wasted obsessing about him. He realised now why Lestrade, Irene, and Mycroft had each tried forcing him to give up his fanatical hunt: it was delivering Sherlock to the very monster he sought to capture.

"I  _can_  live without you," said Sherlock calmly, "and I will live a full, happy life without you. You're just a madman who needs to be committed to a mental asylum."

The words seemed have a powerful effect on Moriarty. His previously gleeful face suddenly morphed into something akin to horror. The corners of his mouth pulled down in a grimace, more suited to the features of a stone gargoyle than a human face, and his eyes widened with fear.

"That's not true," he spat. "You can't bear to live without me, I am your  _life_."

"You  _were_  my life," replied Sherlock, feeling the power he had over this monster coursing through his veins, "but I realise now that it wasn't really a life at all. When you are gone, I can finally move on.  _John_   _and Irene_  will be my life."

Moriarty  _screamed:_  a terrible, wretched sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the ground they were standing on and then sink back into the depths of the earth from whence it came. He flung up his arms to hide his face as if Sherlock's words had physically burned him.

Suddenly, before Sherlock could even react, John had spun around and kicked Moriarty between the legs, sending the madman sprawling backward, howling with pain and rage. John quickly acted on his advantage, as any soldier would've done, and leapt forward to disable his opponent. It was then, in a horrifying moment that seemed to unfold in slow motion, that Sherlock saw the wicked glint of a knife flash through the air. A second later it had imbedded itself into John's abdomen, causing a splash of bright-red blood to spray over the dirty blue tiles.

John didn't cry, he merely collapsed sideways in a crumpled heap. Moriarty slithered back to his feet, the bloodstained knife held in front of him like a trophy.

Sherlock realised instantly that he could take a kill shot now, but he instinctively rushed to John's side. His hands found the wound, and he desperately pressed against the flow of warm blood trickling from John's body. An equally warm liquid was flowing down his face and dripping onto the ground to mingle with John's blood. It took several moments for Sherlock to understand that they were his tears.

"Shall we end this now, Sherlock?" demanded Moriarty, "shall we end all of this,  _now?_ "

Sherlock didn't want to look away from John's pale face, but something compelled him to do so. Moriarty was standing just feet away from him holding a detonator in one hand and the still-dripping knife in the other. Sherlock knew he couldn't stop the explosion any more than he could turn back time and make sure none of this could ever happen. By the time he reached Moriarty the button would be pressed, and he would not allow the last image burned into his mind to be one of Moriarty's triumphant face.

He needed to make the most of what time he had left with  _John._

He sat down beside his son and gathered the small, fragile boy in his arms, pressing his head against Sherlock's cheek. He savoured the warm feeling of John pressed up against him, committing to memory every single line and contour of his child's face. They would be together in these final moments and that was what truly mattered.

Suddenly a tiny, white object whizzed over his head and struck Moriarty in the neck, felling the man instantly.

Sherlock looked up, utterly flabbergasted, at the black-clad MI6 special operative standing just inside the doors which had somehow been silently prised open. Within moments an entire division of similarly dressed operatives flooded into the room like a legendary shadow army. Behind them, not quite running but walking very briskly, were Mycroft and Anthea.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft Holmes looked impassively through the door of the private room at Sherlock sitting beside the tiny, pale figure lying in the hospital bed and holding his hand. He maintained a silent vigil over his younger brother as Sherlock watched over John.

"Ready to go, my dear?" enquired Anthea, walking up behind him and wrapping her arms around his shoulders. When he didn't respond, Anthea gently spun him around so that they were facing each other before slowly pulling him in for a warm kiss. He didn't resist; the hospital corridor was deserted at a time so late at night that it really should be called early morning. The soft, sensual feel of Anthea's kiss brought him some relief from the conflicting emotions that were warring within him.

"You are such a perfectionist," she murmured around his cheek, her words sending little vibrations through his skin. "Not everything can go to plan, you know."

He leaned in for another kiss, hoping to silence both her and the rational voice inside his head which sounded just like Anthea. It worked for all of ten seconds before his wife pulled away and forced him to look her in the eye.

"Mycroft, your ridiculously Byzantine plot  _worked_  far better than anyone could have predicted. We captured Moriarty, stopped a nuclear catastrophe, rooted out a terrorist cell, and cured your brother of his horrible, life-sapping obsession all in one evening. Surely that's something to celebrate?"

"Perhaps," whispered Mycroft, stroking Anthea's face with his hands and seeking comfort in her warm, smooth skin.

"Darling, when you first suggested altering my sister's stillbirth certificate to catch Moriarty, I thought you were a depraved, heartless bastard. I was horrified that you were going to exploit the memory of her dead child – but when you explained your thoughts, I supported you. I supported you because I believe that you are doing the  _right_  thing, that you've always done the right thing, even if sometimes you use unconventional methods."

She wrapped her arms around his neck, gently caressing the nape.

"You know, at times I doubted Moriarty would fall for such a ploy, but he took the bait, and you predicted his every move so brilliantly." He could feel Anthea's breath tickling his chin and the slow, tender hands moving down his back, sending a sensation of warmth through his weary body. "All the things we did: turning Lars Sigerson, allowing Moriarty access to your computer records, laying down the trail of clues to lead Moriarty to John, they worked  _beautifully_. We even managed to shepherd both my sister and your brother along with the plan too. …On that note, we should really buy poor Lestrade a nice present for all the stress we put him through."

"If I do that, he might think the whole  _Sugarhorse_  scheme is about to end," muttered Mycroft.

"And you called  _me_  the master puppeteer…," whispered Anthea, her tone he making the words sound at once a compliment and an amused reproach.

"The problem," he whispered back as he leaned down to bury his face in her neck, inhaling her sweet scent, "is that Sherlock thinks John really is his child."

"Is that necessarily a bad thing?" asked Anthea.

"I shouldn't lie about  _this_  to my brother."

"Then don't," stated Anthea with conviction. Her strength of character was just one of the things that Mycroft so loved about his wife. "Tell Sherlock the truth and let him make up his own mind about John."

"And if he doesn't want the boy?" asked Mycroft curiously, pulling back to look into Anthea's warm brown eyes.

"Then I'd be happy to have him," replied Anthea, and suddenly burst into a fit of giggles when she saw the shock on Mycroft's face. "Go on, Mycroft, talk to Sherlock now," she said encouragingly as she pulled away from his embrace, leaving the faint scent of her perfume lingering behind in her wake. Mycroft took a deep breath and, taking heart from the compassion shining in her eyes, he walked into the private hospital room.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Production Notes:**
> 
>  
> 
> *Remember back when Irene and Sherlock escaped from those goons Mycroft sent? Irene is looking around Sherlock's sitting room and sees a disturbingly well fed spider in the corner above the bookshelves – that is Moriarty's camera.
> 
> John isn't Sherlock's son…but in the heat of the moment, Sherlock really believed it because the events happened in an order that basically emotionally compromised him to the point that he leapt at the idea. He wanted his son to be alive, and he loves John deeply. Those two subconscious desires basically melded into one to produce the entirely illogical conclusion that John was his son. I'm sorry if readers are disappointed – but there is a purpose to this madness.
> 
> The next chapter is basically the equivalent of Agatha Christie's great reveal at the end of every novel – except this will be more emotionally charged and hopefully provide just as satisfactory a conclusion to the story.


	16. Atonement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my two wonderful betas who did so much work on this project and made it such a success.

 

**Chapter 16 – Atonement**

* * *

The room was dark and stiflingly warm. The stinging, clinical smell that clung to all hospitals seemed particularly pungent in this one, and the private room was likewise infused with the distasteful scent. Outside the window, an occasional black cab raced through the otherwise deserted streets, the usually congested thoroughfares of London almost completely lifeless in the small hours of the morning. A faint tinge of pink was gradually spreading across the horizon, signalling the imminent break of dawn and the start to another English summer day.

Sherlock sat beside John's bed, both hands clutching the child's fragile fist. The oxygen mask covering John's mouth and nose robbed his face of familiarity, and only the fair hair spread angelically over the pillow assured Sherlock that this was indeed  _John_.

Mycroft, a shadow in the corner of the room, moved silently over to the window, for a moment obscuring the first faint light of day creeping in through the glass. Sherlock steadfastly ignored his presence and continued to stare intently at the unconscious figure of John. However, Mycroft had clearly come to do more than quiet observation.

"Sherlock," he said, so softly that it was barely audible. "We need to talk."

Sherlock refused to look at his brother silhouetted against the window, hoping that Mycroft might disappear if denied attention. This was unfortunately not to be the case; Sherlock's apathy merely made the man more persistent.

"There are things you need to know," continued Mycroft, a note of insistency creeping into his voice. "I have not been fully honest with you."

The last sentence caused Sherlock to release a low, bitter laugh. It wasn't the first time he'd been exquisitely manipulated by Mycroft as if he was no more than a puppet on a string, and it wouldn't be the last. Sherlock didn't want to hear whatever elegant, persuasive, patriotic excuse Mycroft had decided to feed him this time.

"You deserve to know the  _truth_ ," said Mycroft, moving away from his vantage point by the window and closing in on Sherlock like a predator stalking its prey. Sherlock didn't flinch at his brother's sudden proximity, nor did he move from his vigil beside John's bed. "I planned it all, Sherlock, as soon as you brought the evidence of Moriarty's survival before the Select Committee."

The admission startled Sherlock, but he remained still, digesting the information and connecting the loose threads left over from his confrontation with Moriarty. The new data seemed to fit perfectly, like the last piece in a jigsaw puzzle.

"When and how?" demanded Sherlock, finally acknowledging Mycroft's presence.

"I…," Mycroft paused, a non-verbal warning to Sherlock that he was about to break bad news, "…believed the evidence you gave to the Select Committee but I had to make it seem as if I didn't. I didn't want a full-scale operation to hunt him down – it would only drive Moriarty deeper into hiding, and considering he's successfully fooled nearly everyone in the intelligence community for two years…." Mycroft trailed off, forcing Sherlock to come to the same conclusion he had.

"So you belittled my witness, questioned my  _sanity_  and dismissed the case like it was nothing but garbage – all for the  _greater good?_ " spat Sherlock, unable to maintain his previous detached composure.

There was a tense pause as the brothers stared each other down across what seemed like an impossibly long distance.

"I'm…sorry," whispered Mycroft finally, breaking eye contact and looking down at his feet.

"You think that will make up for  _anything?_ " sneered Sherlock, unwilling to forgive the lies, deception and manipulation. He had been a pawn in his brother's ruthless plot – just a game piece on the board to be sacrificed when the time was right.

"No…but I hope that telling you everything might make up for a little of what I've done," replied Mycroft, his voice burdened with a sadness that Sherlock  _knew_  could not be genuine – and it made him even more furious.

"You can keep your pitiful excuses to yourself," said Sherlock flatly, still clutching John's hand – savouring the warm, soft feeling of human contact.

"I am afraid that you must know, Sherlock. You cannot live a lie."

Mycroft's last words sounded vaguely ominous, hooking Sherlock's attention. He fought desperately against the pull of curiosity to  _know more_. It was just another of Mycroft's sickening manipulations. "And if I don't want to know?" challenged Sherlock, like a fish's last desperate attempt to escape the net.

"I don't believe you wouldn't," replied Mycroft, his voice calm and controlled.

Sherlock was forced to look back at his brother in an attempt to gauge what the man was thinking but, as always, Mycroft's eyes revealed nothing but brotherly  _concern_. "Fine," snapped Sherlock.  _You win this round_  was implicit in his tone.

"Once I'd been made aware of Moriarty's continued survival, I needed to make him come to us of his own accord. Given that he was now able to operate freely as a ghost, there was nothing that could lure him back from the dead except  _you_."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in suspicion, while a muffled voice in the back of his mind whispered to him,  _don't listen…._

"He wanted to destroy you, utterly – so I had to provide him with a means to do so," continued Mycroft, voicing his confession in low, regretful tones. "I had to give him your  _heart_."

Sherlock's physical heart started pounding fiercely against his rib-cage, and the pricking sensation of cold sweat broke out across his forehead. "What did you do?" bit out Sherlock through gritted teeth.

"I doctored Irene's stillbirth certificate."

The five words, spoken so calmly, shattered Sherlock's world – the world he had defiantly protected against all the odds, the world he had nurtured and invested all his hope in. He could feel that hope crumbling to dust and the delicious taste of joy turning to ash in his mouth. His heart no longer burned with the fierce love he had felt for those last brief hours, but the bitter flames of disillusion.

_He didn't have a son after all._

His child had been born  _dead_ , and Mycroft had expertly changed the stillbirth documents into a live-birth certificate. Then, in a twist of genius, he must have covered up the doctored birth certificate by making a superficial alteration to the database, changing the record back into a stillbirth. Any person with hacking experience and enough time would be able to dig through the surface layers of digital deception and discover the live birth certificate underneath. No-one, not even Moriarty, would have thought there was another twist to this plot – that the live-birth certificate was actually fake. It was a positively Byzantine scheme and  _utterly Mycroft_.

" _You bastard!_ " cried Sherlock, unable to express his sorrow and anguish in any other words, "you complete and utter  _bastard._ "

If Sherlock had still had his gun stuffed in the pocket of his bloodstained trousers at that moment, he would have stood up and shot Mycroft in the chest: he would have ended it right there and then. He would have gotten his just revenge for all those long years of being controlled by his brother like a dog on a leash; those long, bitter evenings when he'd poured his heart out to Mycroft, only to be betrayed. However, Sherlock's gun was currently sitting in a locker at the other end of the hospital, having been confiscated by the staff, and the small voice at the back of his mind told him to be  _thankful_.

"I knew about her pregnancy long before you found out," said Mycroft quietly. "Anthea told me, soon after the tragic event. I didn't want to tell you because it would only hurt you. The baby was dead, Sherlock, but you still had a life to live. I – foolishly – thought that in time, you and Irene would be able to broach the subject yourselves, to heal that wound and move on together. I had no idea that you would start an investigation on your own and locate the birth certificate after I had doctored it."

Sherlock stared blankly ahead of him, eyes no longer focused on John's sleeping form. His breathing had become ragged, as if the emotional stress was taking a physical toll. He wanted to stuff his ears so that he wouldn't have to listen to Mycroft's low, hypnotically calm voice gently justifying his atrocities.

"It worked much better than Anthea and I thought it would: Moriarty latched onto the information, and it wasn't difficult to leave a trail of data and fake witnesses that linked John with the birth certificate. We knew about him from CCTV footage filmed during the Home Secretary's assassination. After he disappeared into Westminster station, I started to take your theory about a rebel cell in the Underground seriously. It took MI6 several months to get enough data on the Underground for a safe assault, by which time my plans for Moriarty were already in motion. I wanted to…kill two birds with one stone, as it were. If we moved on the terror cell right there and then, Moriarty might not risk coming to London in the time frame I had planned.

"After he took the bait, it was only a matter of playing along with Moriarty's own schemes. As you have no doubt worked out, he ordered John to shoot down the drone whilst carrying defective jamming equipment, thereby giving us the first proof of the rebels' existence. He spread rumours of the LRA cell in London having acquired a nuclear bomb, knowing that one of our sources would report it back eventually. He calculated correctly that faced with such a delicate situation, I would look to  _you_  for assistance."

Sherlock seethed with anger: during all the time that he'd been persecuted for chasing a ghost, Mycroft had been playing an elaborate game of cat and mouse with Moriarty. The detached, logical part of him quietly admired his brother's astute scheme and the chilling accuracy with which he predicted his opponent's moves, but the very  _human_  part of him utterly detested the man who shared half his DNA.

"Moriarty discovered that MI6 had turned Lars Sigerson six months ago – and he allowed us to send you into the Underground to meet John. I knew that from the moment you laid eyes on John's photograph, you were intrigued by the boy. I had hoped…that he would not be so interesting in real life, but the footage Anthea gave me of you two together in the restaurant…."

Mycroft trailed off once again, turning away from Sherlock's burning glare – but not out of guilt or fear. Instead he looked pensively out of the window at the slowly rising sun, which was turning London into a patchwork of dazzling light and deep shadow.

"I never wanted to hurt you, Sherlock," said Mycroft softly. "I vowed that I would protect you at all costs, from the day you were born…and I have failed spectacularly."

The first golden rays of sunshine flooding through the window illuminated Mycroft's face in profile, and for just a second they revealed an expression of deep and terrible sadness that took Sherlock's breath away. This pain was  _genuine_.

As the expression melted away, Sherlock continued to gaze in wonder, half-wishing that the moment could have been longer. Even though he didn't want to be moved, that tantalisingly brief glimpse of Mycroft without the mask – just Mycroft,  _his brother,_  and not Mycroft the British Government – had affected him. He didn't want to sympathise with the pain, to feel it was his own, to see the  _man_ standing before him and not the monster…but the hateful fire in his heart was fading.

"Of course," continued Mycroft, his mask firmly back in place, "it didn't take long for Irene to derail my plans.  _You_  had worked out that the bomb wasn't real, but you chose to keep quiet and wait for it to play out. Irene, as always, had to make a fuss. Anthea and I were forced to perform damage control so that MI5 wouldn't realise they were not actually engaged in the  _real_ operation. It was dangerous letting more people know about the plan than necessary. In the meantime we sequestered you to the country estate, where you predictably found the Thames Water blueprints. There was never any plan to flood the entire Underground – that would be too risky. Merely flooding the cavern containing the power station was enough, but I needed to make sure Moriarty held his "finale" with you in a predictable location. We let him hack our computers, and leaked our plans to him.

"After you found out about our plans to flood the Underground, we knew you would rush back to London, and we needed you to do so: if you didn't turn up, then neither would Moriarty. What we hadn't planned on was you involving most of MI5 in your little scheme, but Anthea used it to our advantage. Instead of sending MI6 into the breach, we delegated some of our plans for the assault to Lestrade. That was the phone call he went to answer when you were having your discussion. He completed his part of the plan admirably and saved London from a nuclear meltdown.

"…But of course the power station was just the bait in Moriarty's trap. Once he found out about our plans to flood the Underground, we predicted he would choose the overflow basin for the Circle line – the only one of its kind to be built – as the setting for his finale. Once the water started to pour in, he could be assured that you and John would drown if the doors were sealed. Anthea and I mistakenly thought that Moriarty would take refuge in the "dry zone", built above the basin as a safe place for tunnel engineers should the Underground actually flood, and watch you drown. Never in our darkest dreams had we imagined he would rig the room with explosives, to kill himself as well.

"When we couldn't find him on the dry zone surveillance…it was the most terrifying moment of my life." The memory of that fear was etched on Mycroft's face. Deep lines gouged painfully across his features, aging him prematurely and displaying clearly the emotional toll this had exacted from him. For just a second, Sherlock wanted to reach out to his brother, to offer some sort of comfort and sooth the pain he felt…but the moment passed and they faced each other silently, preserving the distance between them.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock; I know nothing I can do will ever atone for this."

Sherlock didn't reply; he was looking down at the tiny figure of John lying in the large hospital bed. The doctors had assured him that John would recover, physically at least. The mental scars of that night might haunt him for a lifetime: in the space of a few short hours, John had found a father and then lost him again just as quickly. Even though John wasn't his son, he couldn't deny that the boy had touched his heart in a way that no one else had.

 _What would become of this child now?_ Nothing would change the fact that he had assassinated the Home Secretary, or that he had planned to blow up the Houses of Parliament, like so many other things, John's life was now at the mercy of Mycroft Holmes. If Sherlock's brother was feeling generous, he might allow the boy to be committed to a secure psychiatric hospital – a bleak future, but a future nevertheless. However, if Mycroft were not feeling generous…John wouldn't have a future at all. The child would vanish as completely as if he had never existed in the first place. He would be interrogated and imprisoned – perhaps killed eventually and buried in an unmarked grave. Sherlock would never find out what had happened to the bright, loving boy who had illuminated his life for such a brief period. He would live the rest of his life both hoping and fearing that John might be alive somewhere and yet never _knowing_  for certain. The mere thought caused Sherlock's heart to shrink in despair. That life was no life at all for either of them.

Sherlock made a decision then that would change the course of both their futures, and he would never regret it.

"He's still my son," he said resolutely, glaring at Mycroft, daring the man to protest. "The paperwork, the witnesses, the evidence all say that John is my son."

"A DNA test would prove otherwise," replied Mycroft softly.

"Then I will adopt him," snapped Sherlock. "You are not taking him away from me, Mycroft. If you truly want to  _atone_  for what you've done, you won't try _._ "

"Does Irene get a say in any of this?" inquired Mycroft, his eyes glinting with an emotion Sherlock could not quite place. Sherlock paused, realising that he had completely overlooked the emotional impact this would have on Irene's life.

"John will be  _my_  son; I will be personally responsible for him. Irene…Irene will understand."

"You do realise that you are volunteering to raise a child – and not just any child, a child  _terrorist?_ "

"Yes," replied Sherlock, confronting his brother with the full force of his conviction. He understood that the road ahead would not be smooth, but it would also be filled with joy and hope.

Suddenly Mycroft's face broke into a genuine smile, an expression that Sherlock had not seen for a very long time. It was joyful and alive, chasing away the shadows that covered his brother's face.

"I knew you would say that," replied Mycroft, his tone taking on a self-congratulatory quality, "which is why I brought the adoption papers with me."

He pulled out a sheaf of papers from the inside pocket of his long outer coat. The heavy weight that had threatened to crush Sherlock's soul only moments before was completely lifted. He wouldn't have to fight Mycroft, after all. However, he was unwilling to allow his older brother this one final triumph – his "little brother syndrome" was playing up again.

"You didn't  _know_  that I would offer to adopt John," said Sherlock, tauntingly. "You were just hedging your bets."

Mycroft merely tilted his head to one side and  _looked_  at him.

"Fine," conceded Sherlock.  _You win this round too_  was implicit in his tone. He took the papers from Mycroft's hand and started to read them. Most of the legal formalities had already been completed, some dated weeks in advance. His brother really had planned this drama to the finest detail, and as usual, everyone had played their parts just has he had predicted.

As he came upon the last page, there at the bottom was the dotted line for his signature. Mycroft handed him a pen, and Sherlock spread the papers across the edge of the bed. Without any hesitation he signed his name.

 

_Today was the beginning of the rest of his life with Irene and John._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Pre-emptive Q &As**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _Why is Sherlock not John's Father?_
> 
>  
> 
> The reason I wanted there to be no biological relationship between John and Sherlock is that it makes Sherlock's care of John much more altruistic (from my point of view). He has no moral/biological/legal obligation to look after this child and yet he does. John has humanised him – can you imagine Sherlock in chapter 1 insisting on adopting John, the child terrorist?
> 
> This story was never meant to be a fairytale filled with wonder and miracles - it is supposed to be a reflection and exploration of real life complete with the tragedies of loss that we will all have to face. Sherlock's son is never coming back from the dead, that's just not possible but the important thing is that he has been able to move on and find peace and purpose in John.
> 
>  
> 
> _What is going on with Mycroft?_
> 
>  
> 
> In real life there are seldom people who are truly evil or truly good. The lines of morality are not so firmly drawn as we would all hope. I have always maintained that he is not evil. He is merely far too powerful, and has a very paternalistic, sometimes Machiavellian, approach to everything. Sherlock and John had to suffer, but it was all in pursuit of the greater good. In my mind Mycroft is a very morally ambiguous character – I find it very difficult to completely admire or completely loathe the man, but I love him as a complex character.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _Where did you get the idea for this crazy story?_
> 
>  
> 
> I live in London and the tube is the main way I get around the city. It is a truely amazing feat of engineering particularly you remember that many of the tunnels were built over 150 years ago. The tube is an iconic symbol of London - and I have often wondered what would have happened if after the WWII the Labour government actually did run out of the money to maintain the vast transport network. 
> 
> As for the characters I wanted to write something completely out of my comfort zone and the vast age difference between John and Sherlock was one way of doing this. I also love Sherlock/Irene fic so this story morphed into a combination of the two. 
> 
>  
> 
> _What will you do now?_
> 
>  
> 
> That concludes this really long, convoluted journey over 16 weeks. The only thing left for me to say is thank you all – and there will be sequel, "The Service of My Love". It follows Sherlock, Irene and John as they attempt to build their lives together as a family, but it's not all domestic fluff (there will be plenty of fluff but there is also a plot).
> 
>  
> 
> **For the plot, two words: HOUND and Liberty.**


End file.
